


The true bride

by ClaireScott



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Kidnapping, Rough Sex, Smut, Submission, mindgames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're kidnapped, rescued and still not free. Your liberator wants to keep you. And he does some dubious stuff to reach his goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescued. Oh, wait ...

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes. 
> 
> This story is dark and not approbiate for teenagers or persons with a shaky mental health. If you're triggered easily, don't read this fic.

You’ve lost track. No sense of time anymore. You vegetate in this dark basement for how many days? Or weeks? A month? You don’t care anymore. The men who kidnapped you will kill you in the moment they finally start to believe what you told them: That you’ve no idea what they’re talking about. That they have kidnapped the wrong woman. That you don’t know a guy named Armand-Jean Bishop, or as his friends call him, “The Black Bishop”, “The sheep eater” or just “Richelieu”.   
Once in a while they bring you a bowl of chicken noodle soup and two bottles of water. You guess they feed you once a day, this would sum up to seven days in the darkness. The mattress you sit on is the only furniture in this shithole beside a bucket they gave you as a toilet.   
Your waiting-for-the-reaper-lethargy is interrupted by the sound of gunshots. You hear men screaming, the thud of dead bodies hitting the floor and you feel hope – maybe it’s police, special forces, the damn navy seals, you don’t give a shit about who came for your rescue. Just a few seconds and everything is silent again.   
Is screaming a good idea? Remaining silent? Who knows who they are. They have guns and they obviously use them. Another enemy? Or the rescue squad? Shit. Shit. Fuck. Before you decide what to do, the door opens and a man enters the room, the gun leveled. The light coming in from the hallway hurts in your eyes, so you have to shield your face with your hands.   
“Clay!” The man shouts, “Look what I’ve found here!”   
You see that he’s wearing a black ski mask, a white shirt, a leather vest with patches on it, and jeans. He doesn’t look like police or special forces. He looks like another enemy. Shit.   
Another man appears in the doorway and looks down at you.   
“Who the fuck is that, Hap?” The man named Clay asks and the first guy shrugs.   
“Who the fuck are you?” He makes a summoning gesture with his gun and you see more men in the hallway, trying to catch a view on whatever their buddy found.   
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you answer hoarsely. “I was kidnapped on Monday, 15th in Stockton.”  
“I didn’t know that Birdie is busy in human trafficking,” Clay says and you shake your head: “No, I ... I don’t think Birdie or whoever kidnapped me wanted to ... to traffic me. They asked me a lot of questions I wasn’t able to answer. They mistook me for someone else, I guess.”  
“What questions?” The first one rasps.   
“About a guy named Black Bishop. Or Richelieu. But I don’t know this guy, I swear. Please, can you let me go?”   
“She’s a witness,” one of the men states in a very sober tone.   
“Yeah,” Clay says, having a scratch on his masked-covered chin. “Take her in the van.”  
The guy who found you grabs your upper arm, pulling you on your feet. With one fluid motion you’re lying over his shoulder, a second later the guy named Clay pulls a ski mask over your head – on back to front. You’re blindfolded.   
“Please, I saw nothing, I heard nothing, I don’t know where we are, who you guys are, just ...”  
“Keep quiet or I’ll gag you,” the guy on whose shoulder you’re placed says.   
“Just ... just take a look at the newspapers, please! There’s for sure an article about a mousy gardener, missing since Monday, 15th in Stockton.”  
The guy stops, growling low in his chest, drops you on your feet and lifts the ski mask. Before you’re able to react you’re gagged and he lifts you again. Two minutes helpless, unintelligible pleading later you’re placed in the back of a van, hearing some men climbing in too. You try to crawl away but a hand grabs your shoulder, pulling you between a pair of legs. The left hand of the guy forcing you to sit is placed on your throat and you hear the low “click” of the released safety catch. The barrel of a gun is pressed at your temple and you sit still.   
“What’s the plan, Clay?” One of your kidnappers 2.0 asks.   
“We’re doing our homework on a kidnapping case in Stockton, doing some research on this Richelieu guy – that’s your job, Juice. Hap, you’ll check what she knows. About Richelieu and Birdie and his dealings. Everything. You’ll stay with her at the cabin.”   
“What I’m supposed to do with her when I’m ready?” The guy behind you asks in a low, raspy voice, the barrel of his gun pressed against your temple.   
“Whatever you think best. Keep her or kill her, I don’t give a fuck. Letting her go is no option, are we clear?”  
“Course.”   
From one hell into the other. You’re dead. You sob silently, trying hard not to panic, feared of suffocating on the gag if you have to vomit. Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. Think of something pleasant. You lean your head against the left knee of the guy holding you. The hand on your throat vanishes, and a second later the pressure of the barrel is gone.   
You have no idea how much time has passed as the car stops. You’re lifted to your feet and a moment later you’re back on the shoulder of the guy who found you in the basement. Hap. Whatever fucking gang name this is. Maybe the short cut for “Hideous Asshole Pimp” or “Horrible Alcoholic Pervert” or “Hillbilly Analphabet Pencil Dick” or “Horse fucking Ape Pain-in-the-ass”.   
He opens the door and steps into the cabin. The door clicks shut and you’re placed at a chair.   
“I’m Happy,” he growls. “Behave or you’re gonna be so sorry. I have no problem with tying you up and letting you rot in the wardrobe. Are we clear?”  
You nod and he removes the ski mask from your face, fumbling the gag out of your mouth.


	2. Who you are NOT.

You take a look around – it’s obviously deep in the night and the kitchen you’re in is lightened by a small light only. You can’t see the face of the man who brought you here, it’s hidden in the dark. Jeans, white shirt, the leather vest, that’s all you see. He leans at the counter, arms crossed, the gun in his right hand.   
“I don’t know any ...,” you say with a pleading undertone.   
He interrupts you harshly: “I can’t remember asking you a goddamn thing.”  
“You didn’t. I’m sorry.” You whisper, making yourself small.   
Hell, you thought these Birdie guys had scared you to death. But you were terribly wrong. This guy is so much scarier – like he’s sweating pure harassment, anger, deadly danger. His aura is like an unholy halo of cold fear, sucking you in, consuming you. Maybe you should try to flee, just to make him shoot you. Not a suicide by cop thing, more a suicide by hatchet man thing.   
“Keep quiet. I ask, you answer.” His voice is a stand-alone threat, giving you goose bumps all over.   
“Okay.”   
“What’s your name?”   
“Y/N Y/L/N.”   
He makes a step forward and now you see his face, his eyes piercing, staring into you, staring a hole into your soul. Lowering your head seems to be the only possibility to hide from his eyes, so you look at your lap, at your nervous fingers, dirty and scratched from the days in the basement. You see that your jeans are incredibly dirty, your shirt, once a bright yellow, is in either case not even a cleaning rag anymore.   
“You stink.” He states after a few minutes of silence and you nod.   
No question, no verbal answer. And yeah, of course you stink. Most likely you stink like hell. You didn’t shower for days, didn’t brush your teeth, wearing your clothes for days.   
“Come,” he prompts, waving with his gun to the door leading in a small hallway.   
He leads you to a bathroom with a small metal-grilled window.   
“Shower.”   
At least you’ll die smelling good. That’s truly comforting. The door slams shut and you hear the key turning. You’re alone. Save for the moment. Taking a deep breath you step out of your disgusting clothes. You have no idea what you will wear after your shower, you only know that you won’t wear these rags again.   
The shower, hot and long, is pure heaven. You wash yourself five times in a row, from hair to feet. You need the whole bottle of shower gel – bergamot, which leaves you smelling like a cup of Earl Grey tea – and nearly half a bottle of shampoo. Wrapped in a towel you search for a toothbrush, feeling happy as never before as you find one in a cabinet, a toothbrush in its original packaging. The small pleasures of life. You don’t bother asking – you’re just not allowed to – and claim this toothbrush as your own. After brushing your teeth with vehemence, using mouthwash and brushing again and again you finally feel like a human again.   
The door opens ajar and you see a tattooed arm, a bunch of clothes and a garbage bag. He drops the bag and the clothing on the floor and closes the door again, this time without turning the key around.   
“Dress. It’s Juice’s stuff, it fits best, I guess. Dirty clothes in the bag.”   
You grab black boxer shorts, a grey shirt, black sweatpants and a pair of black socks from the floor and hurry up to get dressed before he comes in and gets some ideas seeing you naked. It feels weird to wear used boxer shorts of a stranger with a funny name, but the clothing smells fresh and clean, looks quite new to be honest. It’s a bit too long and too wide but it’ll do. It’ll have to do as you have nothing else.   
“Ready?” He asks and you open the door: “Yes. Thank you.”   
He watches you with these piercing eyes for a long moment.   
“You showered quite long.”  
You nod – once again this was no question.   
“Did they rape you?” He asks, his voice sounding angry.  
“No. They told me they would do it ... but ... no.”  
“Okay.”   
He nods and gestures you to walk past him. He leads you to a bedroom with two single beds, where he makes you lay on the right one. Before you’re able to think about what he’ll do next, he’s tying your wrists on the metal bars the headboard is made of. After throwing a blanket over your body he leaves you alone, without saying a word. You try half-heartedly to escape the ropes but you already know that this guy doesn’t do things by half. The swooshing of water in the pipes tells you he’d used the toilet and is now taking a shower too. Staring at the ceiling you wait for what to happen next, as sleeping isn’t an option.   
“You used all the shower gel. Next time you’ll tell me. Got it?” A raspy voice interrupts your circular thinking of horror, pain and death.   
“Yes, I will. I’m sorry.”  
The light’s turned off and you hear the creaking of the lath floor as he lies down in the second bed. The atmosphere feels tense and threatening, even after he’s felt asleep. His pure presence makes you feel bumpy. The fact that you have to lay on your back the whole night doesn’t help. It’s pretty uncomfortable and the very different scenarios in your head, regarding the next morning, keeping you awake for hours. You listen to Happy’s breath, close your eyes as the dawn comes up, and breathe with him. The exhaustion wins and you finally fall asleep, not for long, but you sleep at least a bit. 

You wake up to the sound of the birds and when you open your eyes you see the soft light of the early morning flooding the bedroom. Particles of dust levitate in the air and as always you wonder why your lung isn’t full of dust after breathing them in for years. The next thing you notice is the pain. Your wrists, your shoulders, your back – everything hurts like hell, tensed up and cramped. Taking a look to the left you see Happy sitting on the other bed, watching you closely, like a predator his prey.   
“Please,” you mouth, soundless, tugging on the ropes.   
He gets up and loses your ties, helping you sit up. Rolling your shoulders you massage your wrists, moaning lowly as the blood rushes in your stiff fingers.   
Everything is silent as he leads you to the bathroom and, after a stop there, to the kitchen. You’re starving and hope you’ll get something to eat soon.   
“Coffee,” he says, pointing to the coffee machine.   
As the machine is clearly unused you guess he wants you to make some coffee. You search in the cupboards, feeling him watching you and finally you find what you need. Ten minutes later you sit at the kitchen table, clinging on a cup of hot coffee.   
“Before marrying Bishop, Caitriona was the arm candy of some Australian soccer player. National team, the dude’s a damn idol down under. Juice dug very deep into very old gossip and he found a few photos. Caitriona with her lover on a yacht, a very private holiday, 2004, Bahamas. Ever been there?”  
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head.   
“The holiday was less private than they thought. A paparazzo took a few photos of the lovely Caitriona.”  
You nod, waiting for the continuation. He gives you a thoughtful look, rubbing over his scalp.   
“Strip,” he commands and you flinch, doing nothing.   
“Strip,” Happy repeats. “Down to the boxers. No need to be ashamed, I’ve seen some half-naked women before.”   
“Why?” You whisper and get a deep growl as an answer.  
“I ask the questions. Strip or I’ll make you.”   
Slowly you get up, staring at him in horror, barely able to move.  
“I won’t touch ya. Just need to see your skin, okay?” He states and you can hear how much he strives to calm you.   
You nod and start slowly exposing your skin, struggling with fear and shame. Once you only wear the boxer shorts he signs for you to turn around. You do, shuddering with fear, imaging how he grabs you from behind, touching you, maybe shooting you – or, oh my fucking god, choking you.   
“Okay. Turn around again. Look at me.”  
You do, covering your breasts with your hands. Happy takes his phone and snaps some photos of you. He’s getting up, coming closer, hunkering down in front of you, his eyes focused on your belly. Once more the cell phone clicks and he stands up, typing on the display, probably sending the photos to someone. Then he presses the phone to his ear, obviously calling one of the other guys.   
“That’s not Caitriona. Not even close. She looks a lot like her, that’s right. But she hasn’t Caitriona’s tattoos, not one of them. Where Bishop’s bitch has this miserably done dolphin she has only bare skin. Not even a scar. There is no dolphin and there never has been one.”   
He ends the call after listening for a few seconds, without saying a goodbye, and nods to the clothes you’ve left on the chair: “Dress.”  
You do as you’re told and take a seat again, staring on the tabletop.   
“You’re not Caitriona Bishop. You’re Y/N Y/L/N, kidnapped in Stockton.” He states in such earnestness as if this information would be completely new for you.   
You nod and he sighs: “You may speak.”   
“Thank you. Can I ... just go now? Please?” You ask, although you already know that you’re dead. A walking dead, so to say.   
“No. Clay’s order has been pretty clear.”  
“Which order?”  
“Keep her or kill her.”   
“Oh god ...,” you whisper and he gives you a small smile.   
Suddenly he seems to be helpless and desperate. And maybe, just maybe, you’re able to see regret in his face, grief and pity.


	3. Roofie-d

“Eat.” He growls, placing a plate in front of you.  
“Isn’t it waste to feed someone who won’t see the dusk?” You whisper, “can’t you just ... do your job?”  
“Eat,” he repeats. “In silence.”  
It’s a cheese sandwich with tomatoes and you guess that’s a pretty miserable last meal.  
“Tommy Lynn Sells had BBQ chopped brisket, chilled pasta salad, peas and carrots, sliced pickles and sliced bread,“ you state, not knowing why you said this, spilling this piece of useless information you’ve once heard or read somewhere.  
A mind is a crazy thing. And silence is overrated when you soon will be silent forever.  
“Did you know him?”  
“No,” you answer, shaking your head, staring on the cheese sandwich like you expecting some kind of wonder of it.  
“I did. Met him around 1988 somewhere in Nevada. Crazy guy.”  
“A friend of yours?” You scoff and take a bite of the sandwich, which is surprisingly good.  
“No. Disliked him immediately. Now eat. Today isn’t a good day to die.”  
“Tomorrow?”  
“Dunno. I think about it.” He states and his serenity makes you shiver.  
“Will I see it coming?” You ask, a tear dropping on your sandwich.  
He hands you a kleenex from a box on the counter and you shake your head: “It’s okay. It lacks of salt.”  
“Then say something,” he answers, placing a saltshaker in front of your plate. “Stop crying on the sandwich. Soaked bread is for ducks.”  
“Will I see it coming?” You repeat your question, playing with the salt shaker, not able to look him in the eyes.  
“Do you want to see it coming?” He asks and his gentle tone takes you by surprise.  
He’s taking a seat vis-a-vis, two sandwiches on his plate.  
“I don’t know. It’s both horrible.”  
You watch him eat with hunger, he gulps his sandwiches down in record speed. You’ve never ever seen someone eat this fast.  
“Eat.” He says for the umphiest time and you oblige, taking a small bite. “Don’t you like cheese?”  
“I do.”  
“Why don’t you eat then?”  
“Because I’m facing death, maybe?” You spat, pushing the plate in the middle of the table.  
“Nah. Facing death, bullshit. Be a good girl and eat.”  
“I can’t.”  
He shrugs, grabbing the rest of your sandwich and eats: “You’re right.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Too less salt.” 

The evening you spend sitting on a couch, watching him chewing on a toothpick while watching TV. He’s into cartoons and he laughs his ass off about some old Tom & Jerry stuff. Around midnight he leaves for the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water in one hand, a little brown glass bottle in the other. He places the glass on the coffee table and takes a pill out of the bottle. The pill is jelly-like and he squeezes it over the glass with water. With a little “popp” the pill breaks and you see little drops falling in the water.  
“Drink. You won’t taste it.” He says, handing you the glass.  
You take it with shaking hands, asking: “What’s that?”  
“Rohypnol. Helps you sleeping. And there’s no need to tie you up like last night. A handcuff on one ankle will do.”  
“If I drink it I won’t wake up tomorrow, right?” You ask, watching the glass with horror. “You will kill me in my sleep, won’t you?”  
“No, I won’t. If I had planned something like this I hadn’t let you watch what I do with your drink.”  
You’re sobbing desperately, horror-struck and cornered. You lift the glass to your lips but you just ... can’t.  
“I’m afraid, so damn afraid.” You whisper, staring at the glass.  
Tipping the liquid away is no option. There are more pills in the glass bottle.  
“I won’t take advantage. Promise.” He states calmly and you shake your head.  
“I’m scared. Why ... why don’t you just take your gun and shoot me? Why do you have to torture me this way?”  
“Drink,” he says gently. “Please.”  
He takes a seat at your side and in the moment he passes you see a little bulge in his jeans. Does he have a boner? Oh, shit. Shit, shit.  
He takes the glass out of your shaking hands, placing his right hand on your neck, lifting the glass to your lips.  
“Drink,” he repeats. “Come on.”  
He holds you in place and you feel the first drops of water on your lips.  
“Open up,” he whispers. “Drink. Don’t fight it.”  
After swallowing the first drops you want to throw up, but he comforts you, his hand caressing your back.  
“I’m a bad person, most of the time. But I’m honest,” he whispers, lifting the glass again. “I won’t kill you. I just want you to sleep.”  
You drink, because he’s right: Putting up a fight is useless. He’ll just make you.  
“That’s a good girl,” he whispers at your ear. “Come here.”  
He places your head on his thigh, softly petting over your back and your arm.  
“Close your eyes. Let it work. Don’t fight it.”  
He turns down the sound of the TV, covering your body with a blanket. You feel nothing but fear, for at least fifteen minutes. Then you notice how limp your body becomes, how dizzy your head.  
“Happy ...,” you mumble, asking yourself if this is the last word you’ll ever speak.  
“Pill’s started working?”  
“Mhm ... I ... plea ...se ...”, you mumble but your tongue is too heavy, your mind too tired to continue.  
“Shh. Relax. I keep my promises.”  
All’s black and you wake up again, just for two seconds, as Happy carries you in the bedroom.


	4. Decisions made

You wake up slowly, needing a few seconds to know where you are and what has happened. In the moment you notice that you’re still alive you take a deep breath. Carefully moving your legs – the right ankle cuffed on the bed – you feel ... nothing. No pain between your legs or at your ass. He kept his promises, didn’t kill you, didn’t rape you. Thank god. Opening your eyes you see him sitting on the opposite bed, watching you.   
“Morning,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.   
Turning on the right to face him you return his look. He chews slowly on a toothpick, elbows on his knees. Instead of an answer you get a short nod.   
“Thank you,” you say, meaning it.   
It would have been a cakewalk to take advantage, to have his way with you, rape you. But he did nothing and you give him credit for.   
“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs, “I’m not into fucking passed out women.”   
“Have you never waked a woman with sex?” You ask, remembering how much you liked it being woken up by a hard cock sliding teasingly through your folds, by rough hands caressing your body.   
“I have. But at some point she’ll wake up and is able to partake – or to say no. A woman with roofies in her system won’t wake up as long as I don’t hurt her really badly. And she can’t say no. I don’t like it.”   
“Oh, thank god. So, uhm ... is today a good day to die?” You ask, closing your eyes.   
“I don’t think so,” he answers soundless. “You must be hungry, ate nearly nothing yesterday. You’ll take a shower, I’ll make breakfast.”   
He gets up, freeing your ankle and leads you to the bathroom.   
“Fresh clothes are on the shelf,” he says before locking the door.   
You’re trapped but you feel safe. As long as you’re in here nothing bad can happen. 

After a silent breakfast one of the club members drops in, an older man with scars on his cheeks, delivering groceries, clothes, the newspaper and a fashion magazine. He talks to Happy nearly 20 minutes, while you have to wait cuffed to the bed in the bedroom. After the man left you’re allowed to sit beside Happy on the couch. He’s sharing the newspaper with you, and turns on the TV while you grab the fashion magazine. Thumbing through it you take a look at a lingerie photo editorial, feeling Happy’s gaze on the models.   
“You like this?” You ask, showing him the page with a model in black lace lingerie and he nods: “Yeah, looks good.”   
“210 bucks for the panties, 349 bucks for the bra.”  
“Crazy shit. These fashion guys are out of their mind.”   
“Yeah, kind of. Juice’s boxers are more comfortable and I guess very much cheaper.”   
“Ya like wearing these ass-pricey nothings?”   
“No. I could wear all the lingerie in the world and still look like shit, feeling short and uncomfortable.”  
“You don’t look like shit.” He answers, shaking his head.   
You give him a smile which he answers with a shrug before turning his attention on the TV screen. 

In the evening you do the cooking and Happy eats without commenting, but after all he cleaned his plate, which makes you a little bit proud. You like cooking and consider yourself as a good chef. The conversation is clearly on your side, Happy just listens, nodding from time to time or making some approving sound.   
After four hours of watching TV he leaves for the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and the glass bottle with pills. He presses the content of the pill in the water, handing the glass over to you.   
“Uhm ...,” you say and he lifts his eyebrows, half questioningly, half disapprovingly. “Please, may I go to the bathroom first, use the toilet and brush my teeth?”   
Happy nods, stone-faced, and you get up to head to the bathroom. 10 minutes later you’re ready to face the feared glass of water, meeting Happy in the hallway. He nods to the bedroom and you take a seat on the edge of the bed.  
“Drink,” he says, handing you the glass.   
“Will I wake up tomorrow?” You ask, your voice small and brittle.   
All the fear, the panic you’d got under control the whole day, is back. Happy nods and you take a deep breath.   
“Drink. It’s okay,” he says, and once more you notice a special kind of gentleness in his voice.   
After drinking the water you burst into tears, feeling awkward because he watches you with a blank facial expression. Like you are a kind of study object.   
“Lay down. Get comfortable. Close your eyes.”  
You do as you’re told, knowing he’s gonna cuff your ankle after you fall asleep. You sob silently into the pillow, while he sits on the opposite bed, watching you, just like this morning.   
“Breathe,” he whispers, “just breathe. Relax, okay?”  
You nod, wiping the tears away, trying to trust him, while a part of your soul says goodbye to the world.

And this is how the next seven days pass. Talking, eating, watching TV together. Every night a glass of water with a roofie in it, until he runs out of pills on the ninth day. In this night he cuffs your ankle and takes a seat on the opposite bed. Like every evening.   
“I can’t sleep,” you whisper.   
“I know. But you’ve got to try. Being dependent on sleeping pills is terribly, so it’s kinda good I run out of them,” he says lowly.   
“Why don’t you just kill me?” You ask, for the thousandth time.   
For about two minutes all is silent, the darkness in the bedroom seems to be impenetrable. You can’t see him, you only sense his presence.   
“I don’t wanna kill you,” he answers and you hear him lying down.   
The sheets rustling and he sighs deeply.   
“So you want to keep me? I don’t even know what this could mean. Can you tell me?” You ask under your breath, feeling relief and horror at the same time.   
He chuckles, somehow cheerless: “I can’t keep you. You’re a woman, not a straying dog. I’m no slaveholder, so I can’t just keep you.”  
“You don’t wanna kill me. And you don’t wanna keep me. So, what do we do?” You ask, turning on the back, staring in the darkness.   
“Lie still.”  
“Sorry, Happy,” you whisper and he goes on: “I figure something out.”  
“And what? Staying here forever, watching over me, tying me to the bed every night?”  
“Sounds not so bad for me,” he confesses, amusement in his voice. “It’s one of the most peaceful experiences of my life.”  
“You’ll be bored not later than next week.”  
“Yeah, maybe.”   
In the following silence you manage to relax. He didn’t kill you in the last nights when you were passed out, he won’t kill tonight. He doesn’t want to kill you at all. You believe him, trust him a little bit. He kept his promises, every single one. You’re nearly asleep as his voice whispers: “Maybe you could just stay ...”   
“Yeah,” you answer, “maybe.”   
Again the silence lasts a few minutes and you can hear that he isn’t sleeping.   
“Happy?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Did you fall in love with me?” You whisper, “Is this the reason you can’t kill or keep me?”  
He takes a deep breath and you start to wonder if he’s angry or amused about your shot in the dark.  
“No talking anymore. Sleep. That’s a command.”   
“Okay. Good night, Hap.”  
A deep growl is the answer and you close your eyes. 

 

The next afternoon the sound of bikes break the silence and five minutes later the kitchen is full of men in kuttes. You count eight, all looking rather scary. The kitchen table you sit on is surrounded by the bikers, no chance to flee. Folding your hands in your lap you stare at the table, making yourself as small and invisible as possible.   
“So,” the man with the president patch says, “What takes so long? The job overruns its time, Hap.”  
“I’m just ... enjoying a few days holiday,” Happy snarls and the men laugh.   
“Playing hubby and wifey, Hap?” A man with very blue eyes asks and another one calls: “Found a goddess of the bedroom in a basement? Lucky dog!”  
You shriek as the man with the president patch grabs his gun, releasing the safety catch and taking aim on your head. You squint your eyes, sobbing silently, while the man states: “You won’t do it, so I do it. Jesus Christ! Did she soften you up, Hap? Fucked the killer out of your system?”  
You feel something on your shoulder and open one eye to see what it is – Happy’s butt. He positioned himself between you and the gun, protecting you with his body. He slightly bends his knees, reaching for your hand. He takes yours in his, straightening up again.   
“I keep her,” he states calmly. “I keep her, Clay. Put the fucking gun away.”   
“Wow.” One of the guys says and another one answers: “Amen, brother.”


	5. Another cheese sandwich

It’s a small house Happy owns. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, utility room and a very small lumber-room. There’s also a small backyard and a garage. You’re not allowed to go outside, to the street. You can sit on the backyard porch, but no talking to the neighbors. His rules are pretty clear and the fear is back.   
“Two ways to leave this house,” he’d said after your arrival. “With me at your side or as a walking corpse. Got it?”  
You’d give him a small nod, arms crossed, hugging yourself, praying for the serenity to accept things which cannot be changed.

“I have a family,” you say, standing in the middle of the kitchen, tears in your eyes, “friends and a job. I had a life.”  
“You’ll have your life back soon. I promise. Have a boyfriend? A husband?“ He asks and you shake your head, realizing he had never asked before.  
And you never tell. Unless you have to.   
“I had ... a husband,” you whisper. “He died of a pancreatic tumor, thirty-two days from diagnosis to funeral.”   
“When?”  
“Last year in February.”   
Happy nods. He’s not the guy for condolences.   
“Do you have ...?” You ask, although it’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t have a girlfriend or a wife.   
At least not one that’s living here with him.  
“No.”  
The following silence is somehow awkward and you swallow down the lump in your throat. Nervously playing with your fingers you watch him watching you. Feeling small and meek under his hard gaze you look on the floor.   
“Nothing changed, Y/N.” He states.   
“We’re at your place now. I’m not allowed to leave the house. A lot changed.”  
“You weren’t allowed to leave the cabin either.”   
“Please, can’t you just ... let me go?”  
“No. Either Birdie will find and kill you or Clay will. Staying here is safe.”   
“But I miss my family and my friends. I have a job and ...”  
“You don’t have a job anymore, Y/N. You didn’t show up for about three weeks now, without saying a word. You’re fired. I’ll bring a new cell phone tomorrow. You can let your folks know that you’re fine and in no danger.”  
“Fine.” You repeat soundless. “No danger.”   
“You have a safe place to stay, you have enough to eat and a place to sleep. No one will hurt you. You’re fine and in no danger. Seems not too difficult to understand, right?”  
“That’s a very reduced idea of living.”  
“It’s the basics. And it’s better than being dead.”   
“So, I owe you my life. And my life depends on you, right?”   
And as he had reached his word limit for the hour or the day he doesn’t say one word more, ignoring your pleading and your tears. He places you at the kitchen table, while preparing dinner. Cheese sandwiches. And again you’re not able to eat them.   
“Slowly but surely I start to think you don’t like my cheese sandwiches,” he grumbles, giving you an evil eye.   
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, thinking of the cheese sandwiches your mother used to serve when she ran out of money at the end of the month.   
“My mom used to give us cheese sandwiches for dinner when we ran out of money at the end of the month,” you tell him and he gives you a stone-faced nod.   
“My mom used to make cheese sandwiches because it’s her favorite food. She ate cheese sandwiches every day. For breakfast and dinner.” He states between two bites of his sandwich.  
“Sid, my husband, liked strawberry jam and cheese for his breakfast.”  
“At once? On the same sandwich?” Happy asks and frowns.   
“Yeah. That’s really good. You should try it.”  
Happy nods and shoves your plate back to you, pointing on the untouched sandwich: “Eat, come on. Tell me more about your family.”   
And you do. Because it’s better than sitting in silence. It’s the first day of the rest of your life and most likely you have to spend it with this intimidating, demanding, taciturn, takes-no-shit and gets-what-he-wants man. 

You flinch as he cuffs your ankle to the bed, nearly starting to cry when he looks down on your trembling form, stone-faced and silent.   
“I’ll take a shower,” he says and you manage a nod.   
The evening was ... really nice. You watched two movies in a nearly normal atmosphere. Relaxed. He sent you to the shower around midnight, and there was no warning needed. You are absolutely aware of the fact that he’s going to kill you if you do something stupid. Serenity. Serenity. Acceptance. Acceptance. The mantra of the day. And maybe the night. He claimed you as his own and maybe the “no rape”-rule is lapsed by now.   
He’s quick and so you only have to wait for exact 11 minutes until he comes in again, making himself comfortable. With a low “click” the light is turned off and you stare in the darkness.   
“What are you dreaming about?” You ask and he makes a scoffing noise: “I don’t dream.”   
“What do you wish for yourself? Deep in your soul, hidden behind this hard and relentless facade?”   
It’s silent for three or four seconds and then he whispers raspy: “A wife.”   
There we go. Serenity. Acceptance. You can do this.   
“Me?” You want to know and turn your head to have a look at him.  
He’s lying on his belly, watching you in the darkness.   
“Yeah.”  
“That’s why you kept me and won’t let me go.”   
“Yeah.”   
“Do you want me to touch you?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You want to ... fuck me, right?”  
“Fuck, yes, woman. Stop talking about it, I can’t sleep with a boner.”   
“I’m sorry, Happy.” You whisper, trying to increase the distance to him.   
But it’s only a queen size bed, not a king size ... so ... yeah, fuck.   
He scoffs and admits: “I’m no gentle and patient lover. Want you to know that before you decide to do something stupid.”  
“What is that supposed to mean?”  
“I won’t touch you. But if you touch me, doing the first steps, signalizing you want me, I won’t be very gentle or slow.”   
“So, I could get over with it when I’d touch you right now?” You ask, thinking about if this is what you really, really want.   
“No. You have to want it. Really want it. Want me. Otherwise it feels like rape. I’m a thug, but I’m no damn rapist.”   
“What if I never be able to truly want you?”  
You see him shrugging and he answers: “You will.”   
“Okay.”  
After about fifteen minutes – you can hear that he isn’t sleeping – you say: “Hundred or two hundred years ago a woman had to marry a man her parents chose for her. Often she didn’t know him, saw him just a few times before the wedding. If at all. They married and in the following night he consummated the marriage.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And?” You ask, wiping a tear out of your eye.   
“Rape. Back then rape, today still rape.”   
“Okay,” you whisper, closing your eyes.   
“Thanks for offering. That’s really brave” he says, “sleep well, baby.”


	6. Moving in

The sunlight tickles your nose and the first thing you feel is that your ankle is free. You roll over to the other side, smelling Happy’s odor in the sheets. He’s up already, like every day in the past two weeks. You lie still for about half an hour, listening to the silence in the house and the noises from the street. It makes no sense to hide in this bed forever so you decide to get up and visit the bathroom. In the moment you sit on the edge of the bed you see two familiar looking suitcases standing in front of Happy’s closet – two suitcases exactly looking like the ones you own. What the fuck?  
“Morning,” Happy’s hoarse voice says and you turn your head to look at the door.  
“Good morning.”  
“Slept well, I guess. Didn’t notice me leaving.”  
“Yeah, very well, thank you. No, I didn’t notice,” you confess and stand up.  
“I broke into your apartment, in the very early morning. These,” he points at the suitcases, “are yours. I packed everything you might need. In the kitchen are two bags with other stuff I brought. You might check after breakfast. And tell me what’s missing. You can write me a list and I’ll bring the rest tonight.”  
“Oh,” you whisper, “thank you ... for breaking into my apartment. God, that sounds weird!”  
He smiles a bit, only for a second: “Come on, hurry up. You promised me cheese and strawberry jam sandwiches.”  
“May I go to ... to the bathroom first?” You ask, stepping from on foot on the other.  
“Course, baby. You don’t need to ask. Take your time, no hurry. I’ll ... wait for you.”

20 minutes later you prepare breakfast while drinking the first cup of coffee. You go methodically through all the cupboards, intensively watched by Happy.  
“You can ... rearrange, if you want.”  
You nod, looking out of the window, watching a mother with a toddler on the sidewalk. “Do you want me to prepare dinner tonight?”  
“No.”  
You nod, feeling the lump in your throat. He moved you in with him. It’s finalized. The first day of the rest of your life and you have no idea what lies ahead. You hate this feeling, ever hated it.  
“Will you ... treat me well?” You ask, still staring out of the window. “Will you punish me when ... you’re not pleased with me?”  
“Did I treat you well so far?” He asks raspy and you nod: “Yeah, you did.”  
“I’m not planning to change this. And I won’t punish you. Sometimes I’m really grumpy and maybe I’ll yell at you, maybe don’t speak to you for a few days. But I will never beat you up.”  
“Okay. Thank you.”  
The mother with the toddler is out of sight and you turn around, meeting his piercing gaze.  
“I’ve got one more thing for you. Fell from a truck.” Happy says and you place the strawberry jam on the kitchen table: “Thanks.”  
“You don’t know what it is.”  
“You brought it for me. That’s a reason to say ‘thank you’, isn’t it?”  
He nods and takes a seat on the table, helping himself to more coffee.  
“I’ll make a strawberry jam and cheese sandwich for me. Do you want to have a bite?” You ask and he stares at you, somehow unbelieving, before he nods.  
You prepare the sandwich and cut a little piece off, handing it to Happy. Without taking his gaze of you he eats the piece, stone-faced.  
“Good. Like it,” he states and you give him a small smile.  
You eat in silence, not much, but you manage to finish your sandwich.  
“Tonight there’s a party at SAMCRO. Clay wants us to join. We’ll have dinner there.”  
“What do you want me to wear?”  
“Jeans and shirt will do, Y/N.”  
Once again you nod, drinking some coffee and staring into space.  
“Clay thinks you’re in love with me. And he should still think that tomorrow. So ...” He shrugs, making a face.  
“I understand,” you whisper, giving him a sad smile. “I can do that.”  
The rest of the breakfast takes place in silence and you clean the table and the kitchen, before turning toward the bags he brought.  
“Oh ...,” you whisper, looking up to him.  
He stands in front of you, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick, stone-faced.  
“Thank you,” you say, taking the book you’ve read before the kidnapping out of the first bag.  
You find two more books – the next ones you wanted to read –, a few pieces of your costume jewelry, hair ties, your sun glasses, six bottles of nail polish and other cosmetics and make up stuff. You could say that more or less your whole bathroom is packed in one bag. Opening the next bag you freeze. With shaking hands you take a picture frame out, watching it with disbelief, looking back and forth between the picture and Happy.  
He shrugs, giving you his typically reduced version of a smile.  
Placing your wedding photo carefully on the table, you wipe the tears out of your eyes. He brought your damn wedding photo and there are more photos in the bag. Of your parents, your siblings, nephew, nieces, friends. Apparently he took all the photos he found in your apartment with him. Yeah, he moved you in.  
“Why did you bring my wedding photo?” You ask after emptying the second bag.  
“You look beautiful on it.” He states, shrugging once more. “I guess it’s important for you as you’d placed it on your dresser. And another one in the living room.”  
You nod slowly: “Thank you. For ... all this.”  
“Do you need more stuff?”  
“I don’t think so, I’m gonna check the suitcases, but ... you even packed my birth control pills. And tampons. And nail polish remover. That’s ... stunning.”  
“I’m methodically. In everything I do. You know what that is?” He asks, pointing on a black plastic box sitting on the kitchen counter.  
“No, I’m sorry.”  
“That’s the receiving unit of an ankle monitor. It’s sending an alert to my cell phone – and to Juice’s, to make it double sure – if you leave the premises. It’s also sending an alert if you try to get rid of it.”  
“I see,” you say, nodding, pulling the leg of your jeans up. “Where? Right or left?”  
“Not yet. Tomorrow.” He clears his throat and states: “You ... surprise me.”  
“Why?” You ask, looking at your ankle and Happy’s socks you’re wearing.  
“I still wait for you to put up a fight. But you just do what you’re told. Why?”  
“It’s pointless to fight you, isn’t it? I live fatalism. I’m used to it since Sid got ill. If I’m going to fight you, you’ll probably get angry with me, maybe you’ll kill me. And I’m afraid of dying. It’s a waste of time and strength to fight someone I can’t defeat. I just ... breathe and ... try to get rid of the fear and the horror. I wanna live. A normal life. And if I have to live in this house with you, then I’ll do my very best to ... to do so. And to make it work ... somehow good for ... for us both.”  
“Give us a few weeks. Until Birdie and the thing with Bishop are ... literally dead and buried. When it’s time, I’ll let you go, if you want to go then. That’s a promise.”  
“Okay. Thank you, Happy.”  
“Try to trust me. I’m not your owner or your kidnapper or your jailor. I’m your guardian. I’ll keep you safe. Try to see me like this.”  
You nod, giving him a smile while tear drops running down your cheeks. You know why he said this. It’s his way to your heart. He tries to be ... loveable for you, nice and sweet. You feel that’s not his normal behavior, but you honor his try. Plus: It is – hopefully – the truth.  
“Stop crying, little one. I keep my promises.” He states, and pulls a cell phone out of his jeans. “Call your folks. Tell them, you’re alright. You’re on a journey of self-discovery or whatever bullshit seems believable for them. Need me to recap the rules?”  
“No.”  
“So, are we clear about calling your folks?”  
“Yes, we are. Thank you ... for trusting me.”  
“You trust me, I trust you. That’s how it works. Who do you want to call first? Your mom?”  
“Yes, please.” You answer, reaching for the phone.  
“The rules?” He asks, covering the phone with his hands.  
“Are crystal clear, Happy.”  
“Okay, go on.”


	7. Party time

It’s a wild and loud party, with lots of women and many, many make-outs. The guests are heavily drunk and/or drugged. You sit for hours now on Happy’s side, his arm around your shoulder or his hand on your thigh. Surprisingly you’re a relatively relaxed. The first 30 minutes had been awful, with everyone staring at you and Happy, at your hand in his. You’d listen, just as Happy had listen most of the time. He doesn’t say much, and you came to the conclusion that he’s just a close-lipped kind of a guy. It’s not on you that he barely speaks. But, on the other hand, he talks quite much sitting with you on the couch and watching TV on the contrary to the number of words he spoke this evening. Not that he would be babbling with you alone at home – god, at home! – but he talks a bit more than here.   
“Hey, lovebirds,” Clay says, dropping on a free chair, making you flinch and feeling for Happy’s thigh, searching for hold and shelter.   
“Clay,” Happy growls, pulling you a bit closer.   
“Still playing ... uhm, what did Tig call it? – Hubby and wifey?”  
Happy doesn’t appreciate this with an answer, so Clay goes on: “Back then, as I fell in love with Gemma, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. My mouth was ... somehow glued to her skin. That’s what’s being in love looks like, right?” He grins nastily, cocking his head. “I didn’t see one kiss so far. Not one, not even on the cheek.”  
“I’m ...,” you say, before Happy ignores Clay into the ground, “I’m a bit shy and I don’t like exchanging caresses in public.”   
“Yeah, of course.” Clay scoffs, shaking his head, “I’m excited to see how long you’re playing along in this pathetic farce, Hap. Just call me when you’re fed up to the back teeth. I’ll take care of her then.”  
Happy’s jaw clenches and he growls deep in his chest, but he stays silent.   
“It’s ridiculous how she softened you up. Even more when you know that her legs are closed all the time. You didn’t fuck her once, right? That’s miserable for a man like you, Hap.”   
Happy turns his head looking from Clay to you, his expression full of suppressed anger, his jaw so clenched that it looks painful. In the corner of your eye you see Clay’s grin getting bigger, pleased with the seed he just planted.   
You focus on Happy, holding his gaze, trying hard not to look away, begging him silently for mercy and patience. Slowly you raise your free hand to his cheek, hesitating a second before touching him. Will he yell at you? Hit you? Thrust your hand away? You gently pet over his jaw, one finger, until you reach his chin. You stare on his lips and feel the soft squeeze of his hand on your shoulder, gently, encouraging. You come closer, slowly, so slowly, straighten up to reach his lips. He doesn’t move an inch. In the moment there’s just a fraction of an inch left between your lips and his you stop, breathing him, screwing up your courage.   
“Don’t fight it,” he whispers and you nod, rubbing your nose on his in the movement.   
Your eyes are closed and you smell his aftershave, feeling his stubble under your fingertip, hearing the party noises and the music. And Clay, scoffing: “The slowest porn in the history of porn.”   
Your lips meet his and you kiss him gently, feeling his grip on your shoulder tighten, his free arm embracing you, his hand petting your back. You open your lips, licking with your tongue over his and – oh, Jesus Christ! –, this was his start signal. He takes control over the kiss and you gasp somehow helplessly, overwhelmed by the high passion you’re kissed with. It’s ... heavenly. Fuck, this guy is a great kisser. This isn’t a gentle, shy boy kiss, not the way a gentleman kisses. All about this kiss is a dirty promise, pure ferocity and breathtaking manly.   
You pant as he ends the kiss, looking awestruck at him.   
He gives Clay a “nailed it”-look and adjusts his hard on in his pants, just as this is totally normal, an everyday routine every man in public does all the time.   
Seconds later you’re alone with him, most likely just for a few minutes, until the next brother drops on the free chair. He doesn’t let you go, still holding you in his arms.  
“Promise me a thing?” He asks lowly, pressing his forehead gently on yours.   
You nod, eyes closed again, actually waiting for him kissing you again. Once you do the first step ... that was what he’d said. You did the first step. And now you’re lost.   
“Whatever you feel, don’t fight it. Just don’t fight it.” He says under his breath, petting your back.   
“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”   
“Just ... let it happen.”  
“Fatalism,” you smile and he makes a face: “Somehow, but that sounds too negative.”   
“Did I soften you up? Is he right?” You ask lowly, feeling his deep breathe on your skin.   
“No. He’s wrong.”  
“But ...”  
“No buts. He’s wrong.” He says, his voice harder than usual when he speaks to you.   
You nod, signalizing you will drop the subject. He beds your temple on his shoulder, holding the back of your head in his big hand. His lips on your scalp, his warmth comforting you. You feel save. As long as you sit this close to him, in his embrace, no one will doubt that you’re his. That everyone who’s treating you bad is in deep trouble.   
“Will you ... when we’re ... back at your place?” You ask and he lifts your chin, looking you in the eyes.  
“If you do the first step ... but I don’t think a fake kiss to convince Clay not to kill you in an instant, counts as ... wanting me.”  
“This was a fake kiss?” You whisper. “Wow.” And then the gist hits you full speed into your solar plexus. “Wait. What? Clay ... still wants to ... see me dead?”  
“Yeah. You’re a risk. In his eyes. But he won’t lay a single finger on you. He knows what happens then.”   
You search the room for your biggest threat on two legs but you don’t see him.   
“No fear. As long as you as close to me like this, no one will hurt you. Just stay with me. Don’t fight. Let it happen.” He whispers and you nod on his shoulder.   
“Can we go?” You ask under your breath, feeling uncomfortable with an invisible Clay plotting god knows what.   
“Go where? Say it, baby.”  
“Can we go ... home? Please?” You whisper, lifting your head to look him in the eyes.   
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”


	8. First steps

The night has been sleepless and short, neither you nor Happy slept very much. But he didn’t touch you, and you didn’t make a move in seducing him. So, you stared into the darkness, thinking about how you’ll come to terms with your new boyfriend. He’s older than you, and maybe you should ask him how old he is, when his birthday is. He’s in his forties, definitively. So he’s most likely ten to fifteen years older than you. You just can’t imagine baking a birthday cake for him, doing all the normal stuff a woman does in a relationship. He’s not the guy to live an apple pie life with. He doesn’t seem to be the guy for a relationship at all. But he wants one. This late in his life he wants one. With you. But you have no idea how to ... make this work. You’re still scared, even after this incredibly good kiss. And love isn’t built on fear or insecurity. Okay, maybe, sometimes. But that’s an unhealthy kind of love, a consuming, wrong kind of love, not the true one.   
It had been early morning when you finally fall asleep, dreaming of birthday parties and a zombie apocalypse. Whatever your mind wanted to tell you with such a weird dream. 

Right now Happy kneels on the floor, cuffing your ankle with the ankle bracelet. You know you’re going to live with this thing until he trusts you. Or until the day he lets you go. You don’t believe that this day will ever come, but where’s life, there’s hope too.   
“Thank you,” you say and he shakes his head in disbelieve.   
“I’m home for dinner,” he announces, straightening up, and you flinch: “You ... you leave me alone?”  
“Yeah. Got some work to do, honey. Don’t leave the premises. You can go in the garden, that’s okay. Take one step on the street and I’m here in about five minutes. I’ll find you, wherever you might hide. No talking to anyone. Get the picture?”  
“Yes, I get it. Happy?”  
“Yeah?” He looks down on you with this stone-faced expression, no hint of sympathy or any other feeling toward you.   
“Want me ... to cook dinner?”  
“Could be challenging because the fridge is pretty empty. So, we order pizza or have a take-away. Tomorrow we’ll go grocery shopping.”  
You nod and he turns around, heading to the door.  
“Happy?”  
“Hm?” He growls, facing you again.   
“What if ... what if Clay hires a contract killer to ... to kill me when you’re at work?” That’s a stupid idea, but ... yeah, who knows what these guys do for five thousand bucks. Clay could ask one of the men from the club. Tig or Chibs, for example.   
“Every time Clay hired a contract killer in the past, it has been me. So, no fear. Won’t happen.”  
You get up slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat on the fourth or fifth try. “What? Uhm, ... what?” You whisper hoarsely, supporting yourself on the table top.   
“What, what?” Happy asks, his facial expression still blank.   
“You are ... you are a contract killer?” You whisper, feeling unable to breath, drowning in horror.   
“Part-time.” He nods. “I’m doing the dirty work for the club.”  
“Oh ... huh ... thanks for the ... information.” You sink back on the chair, fighting against the urge to ... puke on the floor.   
“See you later, baby. Don’t do anything stupid. You’ll get into trouble if you do.”

Through the day you try to process the ... thing with his job. Oh, fuck. You fail impressively and you need distraction, so you decide to work. Cleaning the house is first on your list – because you don’t even dare to think about trying to escape. He’s a killer. Not that this should be surprising to you, you had hints, but ... fuck, he’s a killer. And you kissed him. You kissed a guy who had been hired to take lifes in the past. And from all the billions of men in the world one of the few contract killers has to fall in love with you. Dammit.   
In the afternoon you work a bit in the pretty run-down garden – but without having much equipment you can’t do as much as you want to. At least you mowed the lawn – better than nothing. The first day of work after nearly four weeks of laziness is actually pretty enjoyable and gives you back the feeling of being a human again. Plus: You know you’re gonna sleep tonight. You’re already tired as Happy comes home, bringing Chicken Korma and naan. While eating with hunger you watch him closely. It’s a close-lipped day, you guess. One day he’s open and nearly ... human. The other day he’s cold and secretive. So, tonight all you get is a small “thanks” for doing all the work around the house. Maybe he thinks he said too much. Maybe you turned into a risk. Maybe ... you won’t wake up tomorrow. And suddenly you crave a class of water with one of his pills in it. 

But nothing happens. 

Once again a week passes, a quiet week, the distance between you and Happy somehow insuperable. You work in house and garden, craving human interaction, facing a close-lipped Happy in the evenings. You’re needy for an embrace, for everything comforting. And you start thinking about having sex with him. Just to get ... attention, to get care. After five weeks in captivity you hunger for shelter, for comfort. And there’s just one who can give you at least a bit of it. You just need to do the first steps. But ... you can’t. It’s so wrong. So damn wrong. 

“Y/N?” Happy asks in the darkness of his bedroom, twelve days after he moved you in.   
“Yeah?” You answer, eager on conversation.   
“Tell me about Sid.”   
“What do you want to know?”  
“What you liked about him. And what not.”   
“Mhm, okay. Let me see,” you whisper, entering the memories of your marriage, “Sid had a great sense of humor. He laughed a lot. He loved his job and was very passionate about it. He worked at a youth centre for juvenile delinquents, you know? There was no sport he wasn’t into. He loved sports. I loved the way he was crazy about something he loved.”  
“Even synchronized swimming?”  
“Okay, maybe there was one sport he wasn’t into.” You chuckle.   
“What didn’t you like?”  
“He was unorganized somehow, a slob sometimes. And he ...” You stop yourself, thinking about better hiding intimate details.  
“Yeah? And he?” Happy encourages you, “Tell me, come on.”  
“He wasn’t the cuddly type of a guy,” you confess, apologizing silently to Sid.   
“Me neither.” Happy confesses and you chuckle again: “No kidding! Who would have thought?”  
“You like it? Going all warm and cuddly?”  
“Yeah. You can say a lot without opening your mouth while cuddling.”   
“You miss it?”  
“Like hell,” you whisper. “I miss Sid. And I miss cuddling. Two people in one bed – sometimes two different worlds. Sometimes one. Lying in the arms of a man means ... much. To me.”   
“Go on.”  
“It’s a shelter, it means protection and tenderness. Just by holding a woman you can show her how much you love her.”  
“That’s what ya need, right?” He asks hoarsely and you nod in the darkness.   
“Yes,” you sigh, feeling tears in your eyes.   
“I’m watching you, you know? I’m reading you, studying you. You crave my touch, but you’re too afraid to let it happen. You only see the killer in me and you’re sickened by the thought of enjoying my touch or the comfort you wish for.”  
“Yes,” you answer under your breath, appalled. “But I need it so much, so, so much.”  
“I know, baby,” he answers, his voice gentle and soft.   
For a few seconds there’s the old, familiar silence, and you take a deep breath: “When is your birthday?”   
“May 15th.”  
“Okay,” you whisper, wiping the tears from your cheeks.   
“Come here,” Happy demands lowly, “come here, baby. You’re safe. Promised.”  
The sheets are rustling as you slide closer. He takes you in his embrace, bedding your head on his shoulder, placing your hand over his heart. His fingertips caressing your upper arm, slowly, up and down. The way he pets you is just ... heartbreaking soft and gentle.   
“Take your time.” He whispers hoarsely. “Use me as long as you need me.”   
“You’re so ... warm. So ... damn warm.” You say, closing your eyes.  
“You like it?” He asks and you nod, inhaling his scent, concentrating on the warm skin and the gentle touch. “That’s good,” he whispers, “relax.”   
Just a few minutes you fall asleep in the arms of a murderer who feels like ... like a loving man. And you’re too exhausted, too pooped, too desperate to care.


	9. Mindgames, pro level

Your days are pretty lonely and mostly boring, highlighted by trips with Happy to the grocery store or to the clubhouse on the weekends, and – you’re ashamed to admit – by lying in his arms at night. You know he ... manipulates you by refusing normal human interactions, making you starve for attention. Easy, as you’ve got no one to talk to by day and as you’re clinging on him like a limpet when you’re in the clubhouse. If you want to talk, if you want comfort, gentle touches, interpersonal relationships, you have to ask him, him and only him. There is just no one else. He’s the linchpin in your life. Everything depends on Happy. You hate how easy he manipulates you, how easy your mind and your heart are to trick, but you can’t help yourself. Two days of silence, of no touching and you crawl back in his arms, getting rewarded with talking and gentleness, through the night and the next day. You refuse cuddling, you get nothing. That easy. He makes you grow accustomed to his physical closeness, to his touch. And it works. You’re enjoying his presence, finding comfort in intimacy and security in his arms. He’s patiently waiting, a predator looking on his prey fighting a useless fight against the inevitable. Day by day you feel more intensely how tired you are of struggling. The day you’ll give in isn’t this far away. And you both know that. But he never comments, he never exerts pressure.

“Tomorrow is my sister’s birthday.” You whisper against his chest, inhaling the scent which is part of your life for about eight weeks now. Eight weeks. Six in this house, in this bed. Goddamn. And still no way out.   
“You want to call her?” He asks lowly, petting your back.   
“Yes, please.”  
“Okay.” He gives you permission and – before you know what you’re doing – you place a soft kiss on his sternum.   
In a tick his hand is tangled in your hair, petting the back of your head, encouraging, commendatory.   
“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, “whatever you feel, don’t fight it. Give in, baby. It’s okay.”  
“I try ...,” you answer, “I try so hard.”   
“I know, baby. You’re doing so good.” His voice is so damn sexy, every word perfectly chosen.   
You start to caress his chest, his arms, his back and you smile hearing his approving groan.   
“You kill people,” you whisper, exploring his left hand with a fingertip, caressing every structure, feeling the ups and downs of muscles, bones, sinews.   
His palm his rough and hard, the calluses palpable heights. It’s a strong hand, used to hard work, used to hold someone down, in equal measure used to blood, pain and gentle touches.   
“Yes, I do,” he confirms, moving a bit, pressing his hard on at your thigh.   
He’s turned on as fuck and he wants you to know. His palm is definitively an erogenous zone. Happy returns the favor by petting your spine with his right hand, along the waistband of your pajama pants, just with his fingertips. Butterflies on your skin, so erotic, so seductive, so fondly.   
“You kill, but you hate rapists. Why? I don’t get it.”  
“If I rape a woman, she will suffer for the probably long rest of her life. She’ll never be able to enjoy sex anymore, fighting with flashbacks and bad dreams, thinking every day of me. That’s a kind of torture I don’t like. If I kill her, she’s scared, not longer than a few minutes. And then it’s over. No pain, no torture.”  
“No life.”  
“Yeah. But I usually don’t kill women.”  
“You could rape her first and kill her afterwards.” You whisper, shuddering by the pure thought of it.   
“As I said, I’m not into rape. I want a warm and first of all wet pussy, welcoming me. I wanna hear my woman begging for more, not screaming in pain and begging me to stop.”  
You nod on his chest, not stopping for a second with caressing his sometimes deathly hand. You think about his words and the shock is surprisingly mild as you get aware of a piece of new information.   
“Is there a kind of torture you like?” You ask after a few seconds, holding your breath as his fingertip slips under the waistband of your pajamas.   
“Yes. But I’m not going to torture you. You can go on with breathing, baby.” He says and you know he smiles a little bit. “I torture to get information the club needs. I’m good in my job. The best.”  
“And after they spill the beans, you kill them.”  
“Correct. Fast and clean.”   
“Did anyone ever ...,” you stop yourself, shaking your head.  
“Did anyone ever what, baby?”  
“Nothing, it’s ... it’s none of my business.”  
“Tell me. You want to get to know me. That’s okay.”  
Taking a deep breath you intertwine your fingers with his. His fingertips wandering to your ass, not on your skin anymore, but on the cloth of the pajama pants.   
“Did anyone ever love you? A woman? Besides your mother?” You ask lowly, suppressing a little moan.  
He makes you all hot and bothered.  
“There are two types of women: One group is turned on as fuck by fantasizing of loving a killer. A very dangerous man, able to kill you without even blinking. But when he’s with you, he’s gentle, caring, loving. He’s showing you a soft side no one else will ever see. That’s very exclusive, you know? Makes them feel self-confident and important. These women are serial killer groupies. The other group of women is scared to death. Just like you.”  
“And you had some of the groupies in your life?”  
“Yes. But I don’t think they loved me. It’s just a ... thrilling episode. The left when they realized I’m not as gentle, loving or caring as they wanted me to be.”   
“I ... I perceive you as very ... gentle.”   
“Thanks.” He answers, his lips on your forehead.  
His fingers drawing circles over your ass, your spine, minute after minute, constantly, no going further, no increasing intensity. Butterfly-like touches, arousing, slowly building a want for more. Again, you can’t suppress a low moan, finding yourself pressing your body against his, definitely searching for friction.   
“Tell me,” he whispers, “did I make you wet, baby?”  
You nod, hiding your face on his chest.   
“Your pussy’s all wet and nice for me?”  
“Yes.”  
“Make a wish.” He says, once more kissing your forehead.   
“What kind of wish?” You want to know, unsure what to answer.   
“Make me stop. Make me go further. What do you wish for right now?”  
“Kiss me, please. A real kiss. Not a fake one.” You whisper, already searching for his lips.   
“That’s my girl,” he grins, and then ... he kisses you.   
And nothing else in this world could be more important than this one kiss. A fantastic kiss, even better than the one for Clay weeks before. You’re lost, finally, and you can’t go back.


	10. Rule breaker

With a low “click” the light is turned on and you shield your eyes from the sudden brightness. In the blink of an eye Happy kneels over you, hovering over your body, slowly stripping every piece of cloth from you.   
“Wanna see you naked,” he says hoarsely and you nod.   
He’s wearing boxers, like every night, and you concentrate on his muscles, on the art covering his body. Removing your top is the first step – nothing new to him, as he saw you topless in the cabin as he searched for Caitriona’s tattoos. But he stops for a few seconds, appraising your tits. He looks like he memorizes every detail of your body and you know that is exactly what he’s doing. No touching, just a long, long look. Only the toothpick is missing and you nearly have to laugh at this stupid thought.   
“You’re damn beautiful, woman,” he states, pulling your pajama pants and your panties down, leaving you naked. “And you’re bare. I like that.”  
He sits back, his hands caressing your inner thighs, making you shiver. You can’t say anything, you’re busy with ... watching him, processing what happens right now.   
“Taking your pill like a good girl?” He asks and you nod, reaching out for him, needy for skin on skin contact.   
“Please ...,” you whisper, caressing his hand with yours, as his hand is the only part you can reach.   
He’s so far away and you ... need him closer.   
Happy obliges and you moan in the moment his full weight presses you into the mattress. He supports himself on his left forearm, his right hand cupping your tit. His skin is warm and smooth, his rough palm feeling perfect on your chest. He starts twitching at your nipple, watching your reaction with his usual blank expression. Placing your hands on his cheeks you pull him down, greedy for another one of his perfect kisses. He takes his time, kissing you thoroughly, his hand petting you from your shoulder, over your tit, belly, hip to your thigh. And back. You feel his hard on pressing on your skin, the heat it’s radiating sensible through the cloth of his boxers. He’s so horny that his cock already started to leak, you feel the wet spot on his boxers rubbing on your thigh. And he makes you feel so good, so damn good. You crave his touch, his kisses and you want his cock. Your pussy clenches in anticipation, eliciting a little moan slipping over your lips.  
“You’re mine,” he whispers hoarsely on your lips, “I’m gonna make you mine tonight.” 

His words are a mild shock and you turn your head to the side, breaking the contact of your lips. You feel ... chaos. What the hell are you doing here? Making out with your kidnapper? Letting him make you his, whatever this means in his world?   
But you need him, you want him. Deep in you there’s an unexplainable need to be ..., oh, screw it, yeah, to be his. To be safe again, to be worth trusted. To live. To live a normal life, as normal as it can be. You’re fed up with being a prisoner – even if it’s kind of a golden cage –, you’re fed up with being separated from the world. And the key to a normal life is being his, earning his trust. You know he’s gonna trust you when he had been in your head, your soul and your body. But you also know that there’s no way back, once he had been there, he will stay forever. In your head. Your soul. Your body.   
Fuck it, Y/N, he’s already a bit in your head and your soul. He fucks with your mind for weeks, leading you precise where he wants you to be. Even right now.   
You flinch as he withdraws, rolling over on his back, turning his head to watch you.   
“Started thinking again, hm?” He asks and you shake your head: “Please, Happy, please go on.”  
“G’night, baby,” he says, reaching for the light switch and the room gets dark.   
“No, no!” You beg, “Please, I’m sorry, so sorry.”   
Yeah. Right where he wants you to be. Begging for him.  
You feel tears burning on your cheeks, wiping them away in an instant as the light is turned on again.   
“How often did I tell not to fight it?” He asks, “A hundred times?”  
“I try, really, I try, Happy,” you whisper, hiding your face in your hands.   
He pulls you in his arms, turning you on your back, making himself comfortable at your side.   
“I know you do, baby. Relax. Spread your legs a bit,” he demands, adding a ‘please’ as you can’t suppress a sob.   
You do as your told, feeling his hand cupping your vulva. His pointer finger opens your folds and you gasp as he brushes over your clit, back to your entrance, dipping the tip into your pussy.   
“Feel it?” He whispers, “You’re wet. Wet and hot, all slick and ready to take my cock.”  
“Yeah,” you answer as he seems to want you to say something.   
“Just let me in. Your body wants it, your soul wants it. It’s your head blocking you. Stop thinking, baby. Let it happen.”   
“Please, go on,” you whisper, pressing his hand your core.   
“Want me to make you stop thinking? Do you want to overcome the barrier with a little ... help?”  
“Yes,” you answer, suddenly thrilled by the idea. He’ll just make you, leading you. That’s what he knows best. “Yes. I want ... you to help me.”   
He takes his hand off your vulva, ready to start the journey over your body again. His kiss is so welcomed and you’re lost in it in seconds – until his cell phone rings.   
“Fuck!” He mutters, reaching for the phone on the bedside table.   
“What?” Happy barks into the phone, sitting up.   
You see him rubbing his scalp, watching his perfect muscled back while he listens.   
“Okay. I’ll be there in 20. You know what to do.”   
He ends the call, mumbling some curses, before looking over his shoulder: “Gotta go, honey. Don’t wait for me, I’m gonna sleep in the clubhouse after ... the job.”   
Within a minute he’s clothed, has turned the light off and is heading to the door: “See you tomorrow afternoon. Behave. Sleep well, baby.”   
And then he’s gone.   
Gone doing horrible things. And for a moment you think of escape. He’ll be busy, 15 to 20 minutes away. You climb out of the bed, tiptoeing – Y/N, you’re so stupid, why are you tiptoeing? You’re damn alone! – to the kitchen, having a look outside. The street is empty, no one’s in sight. Then you see movement at a tree on the other side of the street, a young man in a kutte closing his zipper after peeing against the tree. He enters a black van, but he doesn’t drive away. It looks like he’s making himself comfortable in the driver’s seat. It’s a prospect of the club. And he’s here to watch over you. If you remove your ankle bracelet, Happy will call the guy in the van. And your lead will be dwindled from a few minutes to seconds. Fuck. Wearily you go back to bed. 

The next afternoon you work in the garden, as you hear a female voice calling: “Hello, Miss!”  
Lifting your head you look to the left, seeing a tiny old lady on the other side of the hedge.   
“Hello,” you answer, cursing internally.   
“Betty Copeland,” she says, smiling. “Are you moved in with Mr. Lowman? Or are you his gardener?”  
“I ... I moved in. Y/N,” you introduce yourself, skipping your last name on purpose.   
“Oh, that’s nice. Welcome! You know, we visited our kids and grandkids, they’re living in Nevada, Florida and Texas. We do this every summer. The Copeland tour through the states, Aaron – that’s my husband – calls it. We came back just yesterday evening, so I have nothing prepared, but maybe you want to ...”  
“Hi, Mrs. Copeland,” Happy’s voice says and you startle. “Welcome back. Kids are alright?”  
“Everyone’s fine.” Betty smiles and you take a step back, gesturing to the porch, where Happy stands, watching you stone-faced as ever, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth.   
“Uhm ..., see you, Mrs. Copeland,” you mumble, waving her goodbye.   
“Have a nice day!” She calls and you pass Happy, heading in the living room.   
He closes the patio door and turns around to face you.   
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I didn’t say anything. She ... addressed me and I ... I hate being rude.”   
He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and nods.   
“Come here,” he demands and you make a step back instead of forward.   
“Wrong direction,” Happy states. “Come here, baby, please.”   
Hesitatingly you step into his personal space, stiffen as he closes his arms around you.   
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, “I know the rules and ...”  
“Shh,” he hums, petting the back of your head.   
And again he fucks with your mind. But you can’t fight anymore. It’s too exhausting.   
His lips finding yours and after a long, gentle kiss he says: “I wanna continue where we got interrupted yesterday.”   
“That ... would be great.” You nod, giving him a smile and he leads you to the bedroom. He takes kutte and shirt off and you see two new smiling faces on his belly, deep black, recently done. In the morning, you guess. After he had his job done.   
“Can I make a wish?” You ask, sitting down on the edge of the bed, leaning back against Happy’s chest in the moment he seated himself behind you.   
“Yeah,” he mumbles, removing your top and opening your bra in one smooth movement.   
“Make me stop thinking. And please be as gentle as you can be.”  
“Everything you want, baby,” he answers, kissing your neck, cupping your breasts with his hands.   
“Make me yours. Please.” You whisper, closing your eyes, finally finding peace.   
“I will,” he promises hoarsely. “I will, baby.”


	11. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT. Pretty much.

A promise, given by Happy, is something you can trust on. He makes you stop thinking and he’s gentle, taking his time. He’s not the gentlest lover you’ve ever had, but he’s patient and interested in making you feel good. That’s a good start. Happy spent copious time with playing with your boobs, making you bumpy and craving his touch more and more and more. In the moment he cups your vulva for the first time on this day you’re already soaking wet, a whimpering, needy mess. He circles your clit, watching your reactions, studying you. He enters your pussy with one finger. Two. Three. Fucking you slowly, lazily, his palm pressed against your labia, exerting soft pressure and way too less friction on your clit.  
“Please ...,” you whimper, as this little word is the only word left in your head.  
You’re barely able to open your eyes, seeing his facial expression, thoughtfully, interested, focused. You pull him nearer for a kiss, your hips bucking against his hand. In the second he ends the kiss he also stops stimulating you.  
“Show me,” he whispers, leading your hand to your pussy.  
“What?” You ask, puzzled.  
“Show me what makes you get off. Masturbate. I wanna learn how to please you. It’s my job to make you cum, baby.”  
He covers your hand with his, leaning in for a kiss, whispering on your lips: “No thinking. Go on. Show me. I won’t look, I kiss you.”  
Fuck, if this is not one of the most erotic things ever, you think, kissing him, moving your hand how you need it. Your orgasm builds fast and you’re already panting heavily as he breaks the kiss. You barely notice that his hand vanishes and his head turns to have a look. Your parted lips gliding over the stubble on his cheek, your breath hot against his skin. There’s no time for embarrassment left. He watches you masturbating but you’re too close to stop.  
“So sexy,” he whispers, “that’s so sexy.”  
You moan as your body tenses, moaning against his cheek, lost in a strong orgasm. He waits until the relaxation starts, until your body goes limp. Then he kisses you again, caressing your body, giving you time to come down.  
“Once again,” he demands, “this time you’ll lead me.”  
His hand cups your vulva and you place your hand over his, showing him how to move, to play, how much pressure you need. You know he will memorize it, learn – and pleasure you in the most effective way. That’s what he is. Straightforward, targeted and effective.  
The second orgasm is even stronger than the first, and he gives you a smile as you finally open your eyes again. For a long moment your gazes are locked, the charm of the moment working its wonder.  
“Take me out,” he says hoarsely. “Your turn to learn what gets me off.”  
And he teaches you how to please him. With hands and mouth – and you’re eager to learn. After sucking him off a few minutes he goes down on you, eating you out, and it’s good, so damn good. He doesn’t use his mouth much for speaking, but the way he kisses, the way he eats you out, dammit! This man knows what to do with his mouth. And you’re hooked.  
There’s no space in your head left to think of his job, of the circumstances you’ve met. There’s just him. A man. Your man. 

After an eternity, after you feel totally spend, he kneels between your legs, spreading you wide.  
“Look at me,” he commands and you feel the tip of his cock gliding through your folds. “Beg me, baby. I wanna hear you begging for my cock.”  
“Please, Happy, fuck me. I want to feel you. Fuck me, please!” You whisper, smiling because he smirks.  
“Love that,” he groans and you gasp as he pushes into you. “You’re mine, baby. Mine.”  
He remains still, for about ten seconds, eyes closed, his breath even and deep. Then he leaves you and you moan loathly.  
“Please,” you whisper once again and feel him sliding to your asshole, tipping against it.  
“Are you into anal?” He asks and you shake your head: “I ... I don’t know. I’ve never ....”  
Once again he smirks, pushing into your pussy, one hard thrust, filling you to the hilt: “Good. I love being the first.”  
“What, now?” You ask, somehow horrified, and he shakes his head: “Today is pussy day. No fear, baby, I’ll make you want it. We’ll take our time.”  
And with this he starts fucking you, by all tricks of the book.

Half an hour later you’re lying at his side, staring at the ceiling, spent, tired, and somehow ... happy. High. You want to curl up against him, take a nap and have sex again. It was the first time and it was fantastic for a first time. Once you’re well-rehearsed the sex will be ... earthshaking, you guess. You listen to his even breathing, drawing circles on his chest with your finger, while his hand slides over your throat, casually, a few times.  
“You broke the rules, baby,” he says gently and you startle, torn out of your post-orgasmic relaxation.  
“I’m so sorry, Happy,” you whisper, “I ... I just wanted to be polite.”  
“Because you’ve never put up a fight we never had a talk about what happens if you break the rules.”  
“Oh, god, Happy, please, don’t ... hurt me. Please, I’ll be good, I swear.” You whisper, feeling all the horror of the first days coming back.  
“Breaking rules means punishment,” he says, his voice stern and even.  
Mind games, you think, he fucks with your head. But he’s a killer, so you never know ... shit, it’s so damn scary.  
“Please, please, don’t hurt me, Happy. I’m so scared, please, stop.” You beg, totally frightened.  
“You’re mine. I don’t hurt what’s mine.” His voice is icy, just as the pure thought of him hurting you is the biggest affront in the history of affronts.  
“Thank you, thank you so much,” you answer, clinging onto him, hiding your face on his chest, feeling the relieve pulsing through your body.  
Searching for shelter in the arms of the man who threatens you.  
“Don’t thank me this early. You’ll be punished. Considering you were a good girl for weeks, you can choose between two different punishments.”  
“Okay ...,” you say slowly, waiting for him to go on.  
“No talking to anyone, that’s what I said, right?”  
“Right.”  
“So, either you’re going to stay in the house for a week, starting tomorrow, no garden, no chats with Mrs. Copeland, or you’re allowed to go in the garden and to chat with Mrs. Copeland, as long as I’m with you. But I won’t talk to you then. No talking, no cuddling. For a week, starting tomorrow. What do you choose?” He asks and you start to cry, partly because of relieve, partly because he fucks with your head so badly.  
“I’ll stay in the house,” you whisper, knowing that he knew what you would choose.  
Strengthen the bond. Hook her. And you’re already hooked.  
“That’s my good girl,” he praises, kissing you on the forehead. “Tomorrow morning I change the adjustments on the ankle monitor. You’ll stay inside. Or we’ll have another talk about punishment.”  
“What ...,” you clear your throat, “What I’m supposed to do when someone comes for a visit?”  
“Follow the rules. That’s easy.”  
“I don’t open the door.”  
“Yes. No one will drop by. It’s no big deal to follow the few rules I gave you.”  
And before you can think about, naturally, automatically, knee-jerk, a “Thank you, Happy” comes over your lips.  
“You’re welcome, baby. Now, get up.”  
“Why?” You ask, frowning.  
“You wanted to call your sister?”  
“Oh.” You whisper, “Yeah.” And once again a “Thank you” slips over your lips.  
Happy gives you a smile and gets up, dressing in sweatpants and a “Reaper”-Shirt, while you just sit on the bed, watching him.  
“What’s for dinner, baby?” He asks casually, tearing you out of the numbness.  
“Uhm, short loin and home fries.”  
Thank god you had prepared dinner before going into the garden, so you’ll be able to eat before midnight. You’re starving already.  
“Happy?”  
“Yeah, honey?”  
“While I’m not allowed to go ... in the garden, would you mind watering the plants? Please?”  
He nods and fumbles a prepaid cell phone out of the jeans he was wearing through the day. He hands you the phone and once more, you whisper a “Thank you.”


	12. Inner peace

Day 5 of your punishment. You stare out of the kitchen window, 35 minutes left for the cake in the oven. 35 minutes of nothing to do. The kitchen is clean, the house is pristine. You watch the pretty empty street, a couple taking their dog for a walk. Some woman, living on the other side of the street, is taking the trash out. That’s Happy’s job, as you’re not allowed to leave the house. Everyone just ... leaves. You have to stay in here. You sigh, regretting your stupid little chat with Mrs. Copeland. You didn’t even speak a dozen of words to her – nine words, if you remember correctly – and lost one of your little privileges for a whole week in return.   
You’re so stupid, you think. The rules are pretty clear. Follow the rules and everything’s fine. It’s so easy. He doesn’t ask for much, right?   
You take a look on the kitchen timer. 31 minutes left. You leave the kitchen, heading to the living room, to the book shelf were you’ve placed your wedding photo. You take it from the shelf, smiling at it. Taking a seat on the couch you stare at the image, remembering the day of the wedding, the day you’ve met Sid for the first time, the day he died. You’re deep in your memories, barely noticing that Happy drops on the couch on your side, freshly showered.   
“Watcha doin’?” He asks and you shrug as an answer, still staring on the photo.   
“Put it away,” he says after another minute and you feel his piercing gaze on your face.   
“Why?” You ask, obediently placing the photo on the coffee table.   
Without thinking. You curse internally and take the picture frame again.   
“Because I say so. Why did you stare on it?” Happy’s voice is low and raspy.   
He places a hand in your neck, caressing the sensitive skin there. It’s not only a tender gesture. It’s a possessive one too and you know that.   
“I don’t know,” you whisper, clinging onto the picture frame.   
You won’t let go. Not this time. You know he’ll make you, but ... you have to try if you want to look at yourself in the mirror without being ashamed.   
“Did you ever say good bye to Sid? For good?” He wants to know, and you close your eyes for a moment, fighting against the urge to submit to his gentle working on your neck. In your head. In your soul.   
Peace is something so ... alluring.  
Put the damn photo away, Y/N, be a good girl, you want to be rewarded. You want to be hold when you’re crying. Stop thinking. Give in.  
But you only shake your head, not able to answer verbally.   
“It’s time,” Happy says, adding a bit pressure on your neck, massaging your muscles.   
It’s all very subtle, but you feel how he presses the buttons, and you see the way you want to react. The way you will react, without any doubt. It’s scary but it’s a need to ... to please him.  
“Because of you,” you state, taking a deep breath.   
Ready to put up a fight.   
“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft and gentle, “Because of you. Because Sid wanted you to go on with your life.”   
“He ... he ... It was ... horrible. Sid fought like a lion, he just ... don’t wanted to stop breathing. It was so painful, such a torture to watch him. On the day he died I hoped for every breath he took it would be the last. But he ... just went on struggling. He couldn’t give in into the inevitable.” You whisper, wiping tears from your cheek. “The moment he gave up, the moment he lost his fight – it was so peaceful. For ... for us both, I guess. I felt more relieve than ... teariness. Because the ... the torture was finally over.”  
“That’s what you’re doing to me. Watching you fight against the inevitable is torture. It’s painful.”  
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, “so sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”  
“I know, baby. You’re tired and worn out, aren’t you?”  
You nod, welcoming his embrace, his warm strength.   
“Happy, please, can I ... go out? Just on the porch, for ... half an hour?”  
“No, baby. And you know why.” He whispers, so damn gently, caressing you, comforting you, the grip on your neck getting stronger, just a little bit.   
You place the picture frame on the coffee table, upside down, leaning against Happy.  
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers approvingly, kissing you on the temple. “That’s my good girl. Stop fighting.”  
You kiss him, a long gentle kiss, he lets you control completely. It’s so easy, so very easy. It feels so natural, as you’ve never done anything else. Sid is part of another life, one that’s over. Now you’re here, you’re safe and you’re with Happy. Everything seems to be so calm, from one second to the other. You feel one of his hands on the back of your head, the other one still in your neck.   
You kiss until the kitchen timer says it’s time to have a look after the cake. You withdraw, getting up and give him a smile.   
He follows you into the kitchen, leaning in the door frame, watching you taking the cake out off the oven.   
“Smells good.”  
“It’s a carrot cake,” you answer, taking a deep breath, welcoming the peace you feel, hoping it’ll be permanent.   
He comes closer, leaning on the kitchen counter, hands buried in the pockets of his sweatpants. You step in front of him, placing your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder.   
“Thank you,” he whispers in your hair.  
“For what? The cake?”  
“Yeah. For the cake and for stop fighting. Love ya, baby.”  
He’s so deep in your head, in your soul that he noticed the chance, the peace in an instant. Yesterday you would have been scared to death by this. Today you’re not only able to accept it, you welcome it. It gives you peace. It’s a strong connection, calming you, making you feel good. It’s love. A kind of love you’ve never experienced before but who said there’s only one kind of love in the world? You see how narrow-minded you were all the time and you’re thankful that Happy opened you up.   
“I love you too, Happy,” you answer, “I love you.”   
“My woman,” he whispers, “finally.”  
You stand there for a little while, enjoying his embrace, his kisses, his hands wandering over your body.   
“Want to go on the porch?” He asks and you shake your head: “No. It’s okay.”  
“Good girl,” he praises lowly and you know that this is what you are and what you ever wanted to be.


	13. Long leash

Finally, the week of punishment is over and Happy told you, you would join a party at the clubhouse. It’s pretty hot and you’re wearing tight knee-length jeans shorts, a top and sneakers. Happy watches you thoughtfully, his arms crossed.   
“Shall I go, change?” You ask, pointing on your legs, on the ankle bracelet.   
“No.” Happy hunkers down, removing the ankle bracelet – and your hear his cell phone ringing, only ten seconds later.   
He walks to the black plastic box, turning the monitor and the alarm off. Then he calls Juice, telling him that he doesn’t need to drop by. You’re free.   
“Why don’t you own any heels?” Happy asks and you shrug: “I just don’t like them. I hate walking in heels.”   
Happy nods, grabbing his wallet and the keys and stops in the motion: “Uhm, do you need to ... dunno ... get your nails done? Or your hair?”  
“Getting my hair done would be great,” you answer and take a look at your nails: “I never ... get my nails done, Happy. It’s a waste of money when you work as a gardener. I just use nail polish. Sometimes.”  
He gives you a short nod, taking your hand in his, watching it closely, like he’d never before noticed your hands – what isn’t true.   
“Next week we’ll get your hair done.”  
“Thanks. Do you want me to ... wear heels and get my nails done?” You ask, shoving your free hand in the pocket of your jeans.   
“No. That’s okay. You don’t need to change, baby.”  
“Thank you.”   
“You’ll stay in earshot. Where I can see you. You don’t leave the clubhouse. You give notice when you go the bathroom and you give notice when you’re back.”  
“Oh ...,” you whisper, feeling excited.   
You stayed with Happy for safety reasons at every visit there, but now ... things have changed. It would be great to talk to someone else. Maybe a woman. Finding a friend. You flinch and ask: “Am I allowed ... to talk to anyone I want?”  
“You are. Behave, woman. Misbehaving results in punishment.”  
“Mhm. May I ask what kind of punishment?” Your voice is soft and low, and now you grab Happy’s hand, caressing his palm.   
It’s his weak spot, you already know that.   
“Quit the games, honey,” he grins, “I know what you’re doing.”  
“I’m being gentle and ... fuzzy with my man, nothing else.” You answer, smiling.   
Happy scoffs, giving you a cold look: “Cheese sandwiches.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Punishment is cheese sandwiches. Nothing else to eat for you. For three months.”  
“You’re kidding,” you say, giving him an insecure look, watching his stone-faced expression.   
“I am. Let’s go.”  
“And what’s the real punishment?”  
“You’ll get to know that soon enough. Be a good girl and we don’t need to talk about it. Internalize two things: First, I don’t like feeling impelled to punish you at all. Second, I don’t hurt what’s mine.” 

 

You enter the clubhouse hand in hand with Happy, staying with him for about 20 minutes. Then you take a seat at the bar, ordering a beer. You chat with Chucky about the RTA on the highway a few days ago, feeling Happy watching you while he talks to Bobby, Chibs and some guy from the Indian Hills chapter.   
“Hey, Y/N,” Juice says, smiling, dropping on the bar stool at your side. “Got rid of your ankle bracelet?”  
“Yeah.” You nod, taking a sip of your beer.   
“How are you? Everything’s okay with Hap?”  
“I’m fine, thanks. We’re good.”   
“Great. So, uhm, can I ask you a few questions?” Juice’s scraping on the label of his bottle of beer, and he turns around to look at Happy for a second.   
“Sure. But I don’t know ... if I can answer them,” you say, thinking about punishments if you answer the wrong questions.   
But Juice is Happy’s partner in crime, at least in your case, he’s the only brother in the club who knew about the ankle bracelet.   
“Okay, so, I own 20 % at Clear Passages, the herbal colonic spa at Crestview. And we need ... herbs. As the name says. But these fucking herbs won’t grow fast enough and we don’t wanna buy them. Do you think you could give us some advice? And, next question, which equipment do I need to grow weed in an old storehouse?”   
You laugh, shaking your head, catching Happy’s gaze. He watches Juice and you with interest, his facial expression hard and tight, as ever. He gets up, coming closer, standing beside you, his arms crossed over his chest.  
“Watcha talking about?” He asks and Juice answers: “I asked her for advice in our herbs problem at Clear Passages. And Barney, my partner at Clear Passages, bought an old storehouse and wants to grow weed there. I asked her what he’s gonna need for this little ... project.”   
“Gardener consultation hours,” you smile, petting gently over Happy’s arm.   
The door to the chapel smashes open and Tara storms out, followed by Jax.   
“Fuck yourself, Jackson Teller! If you think I’m your hostage, you’re so damn wrong”, she yells, gesturing wildly. “I’m not a prisoner, I’m not here for serving dinner and keeping your fucking bed warm, and I won’t shut up when you tell me to, Jax. You can sleep here, and don’t you dare coming home until you apologized properly.”   
Tara turns around, leaving the clubhouse while the brothers applauding and cracking jokes about Jax.   
“I would spank the shit outta her,” one of the guests says and the guy from Indian Hills states: “You’ll find another pussy, Jax.”   
You stare at the door, shocked somehow. Did she really leave? This easy? No one is following her, not even Jax. You feel Happy and Juice watching you closely, not participating in cracking jokes or making stupid suggestions.  
“Don’t,” Juice says lowly. “Just ... don’t.”   
“Don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about being disrespectful in front of my brothers. I’m not Jax, Y/N.”  
You give him a smile, shaking your head: “No, it’s ... it’s just ...,” You clear your throat, rubbing over your neck, squeezing the muscles there. “Would it be okay to ... to have a look after Juice’s herbs? Uhm, in your company?”  
“Yeah. We’ll have a look tomorrow afternoon.”   
“Thanks,” Juice smiles, “I’ll send you the address, Hap.”  
“I’ll write a list for ... for your weed stuff, okay?” You say, giving Happy a questioning look.   
Once more he nods and you give Juice a little smile.   
“Come. We’ll have a talk.” Happy says, placing his hand on your lower back and leading you to his dorm.   
He closes the door behind him, locking it. You swallow hard, taking a step back, one more, until your knees hit the bed frame. Happy turns around, looking at you in silence.   
“Did I do something wrong?” You ask and he comes closer, locking his gaze with yours.   
Then he raises his hand, gently caressing your cheek. You take a deep breath and feel his fingers petting over your throat. It’s gently and caring but you understand the threat within, the demonstration of power.   
“How do you feel?” He wants to know. “The truth.”  
“Good. I feel good. A little bit excited and agitated, maybe.”  
He nods, his thumb brushing over your lips.   
“That’s just a little chuckhole. Nothing we can fix,” he whispers at your ear and you close your eyes.   
His fingers reaching your neck, working wonders there, giving you comfort and hold. This is what you need. Exactly this.   
“You would miss me, baby. Am I right?” A deep rasp at your ear, his free hand caressing your ass, the hand in your neck exerting soft pressure.  
It calms you, calms you immediately. Just like ... an orgasm afterglow. Did he ... did he train you to feel like this, without you even noticing? He spent what seemed to be hours with his hand on your neck. Did he really ...? You drop the thought – even if he did, it changes nothing. Mindgames. All mindgames.   
“Yes, I would, Happy. I would miss you.”  
“Tell me, what did you think?”  
“I was afraid he would hit her. In front of us all. And then I was surprised that she was ... allowed to go. No one followed her. Not even Jax.”  
Happy kisses you gently and breaks the kiss, asking: “Why did you say ‘In front of us all’?”   
“I don’t know,” you whisper, suppressing a moan because he didn’t stop petting your ass.   
“Is it okay if he beats her up later, when they’re alone?” Happy wants to know, his lips brushing over yours.   
“I ... I don’t know. It isn’t, normally. But here ... I don’t know.”   
“She’s allowed to go because Jax knows that she’ll come back. You’ll be allowed to go, when I can be sure about that you’ll come back.”  
He skips the subject of being beaten up and you know why. He fucks with your head and you react just the way ... you have too, you’re supposed to do. Although there’s a noticeable threat behind his behavior, behind every word coming out of his mouth, every fiber of your body tells you that he’s the man to protect you, to love you.   
“Thank you, Happy.”  
“Was it too early to give you the long leash, honey?” Happy asks, “The peace isn’t as deep-seated as I thought, right?”  
You nod, resting your head on his chest. Shelter, protection, in this fucked-up world you don’t understand anymore. All you know is that you’re safe and loved when you’re close to him.   
“Want me to renew the peace you’ve felt?” He whispers and you nod.   
“Please, Happy.”   
“That’s my good girl,” he answers, sitting down on the edge of the bed, placing you on his lap.   
“What would you do?” You whisper on his neck, breathing his scent.   
It’s playing with fire, but you need to know.   
“I don’t tolerate disrespectfulness. Be disrespectful and I react. But my punishments are ... deeper lessons than just a hot, red ass and a few tears, forgotten in a less than a week. A punishment because you were disrespectful is something you can really fear, baby.”   
You nod, that’s what you’ve already thought.   
“I just ... started to enjoy the conversation with Juice and ...”  
“Yeah, I know. Tomorrow we’ll be alone with Juice. You can have a talk with him without being interrupted.”  
“Thank you, Happy.”  
“You’re welcome.”   
With every minute alone with him you feel the peace coming back. He says the right things to make you feel better. After about 30 minutes you feel quite normal again, ready to face the party.   
“You’ll stay at my side,” Happy says. “We forget the long leash for the next few days.”  
And just for a second you feel betrayed, because you did nothing wrong. It was Tara, who ... But then the thought his gone. Happy knows what’s good for you. It’s all about trust. And the peace stays where it is, maybe – hopefully – a little bit more deep-seated. You don’t want to lose this feeling again.


	14. How it works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut. Rough sex.

A few days down the road, on a peaceful Thursday afternoon, you sit on the porch, reading a book. It’s quiet and safe, as neither Mrs. Copeland nor the neighbor on the other side can see you. You’re untempted to talk to anyone when no one talks to you.   
The fronts slams shut and you hear the sound of heavy boots.   
“Y/N!” Happy barks and you get up, startled.  
That doesn’t sound good. Not at all. Shit.   
You step into the living room, closing the patio door behind you: “I’m here, Happy.”  
He enters the room, radiating anger, rage, murder in his face. His chest his heaving, he squints, looking at you. You take a step backwards, feeling the glass of the patio door in your back. You don’t dare even to make a cheep, lowering your gaze, watching your naked feet, dark red painted nails, the same color as old blood. You hear the rustling of clothes, of leather and you risk a look. He’s stripping, the upper half of his body already naked. And still there’s so much rage surrounding him. You hear the clatter of belt and keys thrown on the coffee table, followed by the dull sounds of wallet, gun and knife hitting the table top and the noise of his boots falling on the floor. More rustling, more anger, more ... arousal. You sense his arousal without looking at him.   
“Bikini, huh?” He growls, coming closer.   
“It’s pretty hot outside,” you answer, seeing his naked feet in front of yours.   
His fingers lift your chin, his lips meeting yours. His other hand slides on your ass, squeezing, rubbing. You search for hold on his upper arms before placing your arms around his neck.   
“Bedroom. Strip.” He commands, slapping your ass and turning you in the direction of the bedroom. 

Once you’re naked he’s throwing you on the bed, kneeling over you.   
“Can’t be gentle,” he mumbles and you whisper: “I know. It’s okay.”  
His teeth sink in the skin on your shoulder, making you nearly scream, so he’s licking over the spot to calm the pain. It’s the start of the roughest sex you’ve ever experienced. You feel his teeth, his hands all over your body. Happy bites your nipples, he bites in your belly, he sucks and licks his way down your body, leaving marks and tiny spots of pain. You already know that you won’t wear a bra for the next two days because your nipples are fucking sore. He reaches your pussy and you bite on your fist to cushion your screams. And – oh, Jesus Christ – this fucker even doesn’t stop on your clit. He bites in your clit, just a little bit, nibbling with his teeth on the little nub and you come undone while he fucks you with three fingers.   
“Happy!” You scream, your legs trembling, your body shaking, your hands pressed on his bald head.   
He doesn’t stop. And your orgasm goes on. Ending just to start new in a heartbeat. One coalescing in the other, countless. Over and over and over. You’ve never experienced something like this before and you wish you could make it stop, wish it would never end at the same time.   
You press against his head, crying, sobbing, pleading: “Plea...please, stop! Stop! Please!”  
Begging for mercy cause the next orgasm will kill you. And a promise Happy has given is something you can trust. Most of the time. You hide your face in your hands, trying to get enough air in your lungs, waiting for the moment your oversensitive clit will ... explode. Your chest heaves as you’d run a marathon world record, you feel dizzy and somehow helpless. You cry. That’s all you can do. Tears streaming down your face, the emotions, the hormones, the countless orgasms, it’s too much.   
He withdraws, sliding over you, removing your hands from your face.   
“You cry?” He asks and you nod, fighting to pronounce the words between all your sobs: “I’m sorry.”  
“No need to be sorry. I love seeing you come undone.”   
He takes his pillow, turns you around on your belly and props your hips on the pillow for better access. While spreading your legs you flinch as you feel a bit pressure on your clit.   
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, pushing into you with power.   
One hard thrust and he’s balls deep in you. A deep guttural moan slips over your lips, synchronically with a dark growl of Happy. Your sore nipples, your sore clit – everything’s on fire, rubbing over the sheets and the pillow.  
Happy fucks you relentlessly, setting a hard and fast pace, reaching around your body to stimulate your clit once more.   
“No! No! Please, Happy, don’t!” You yell, your fists clenched in the sheets.   
“One last time,” he demands, “I want you to milk my cock.”   
“I can’t, please, I can’t!” You struggle, trying to avoid his touch on your clit.   
“You can, baby. I’ll make you. Hold still.” He growls, slowing his movements down.   
His left hand on your neck, his right one at your labia, fucking you hard and so, so damn good. Another deep, guttural moan comes over your lips and your hips start bucking, fucking yourself on his cock, interfering his rhythm.   
“Hold still, dammit!” Happy groans, adding more pressure on your neck, pressing you deeper in the mattress.   
You’re panting, face hidden in your pillow, fists clenching the sheets, trying to hold still for him. It lasts ... maybe ten to fifteen seconds and you feel another orgasm building.   
“Hap ...,” you moan and he answers: “Yeah. Feel it. Let go, baby. Milk me.”  
It’s pretty difficult to let go as your oversensitive clit makes reaching an orgasm challenging. It hurts a bit, to be honest, it feels somehow awkward. But you have to, you know that. He wants you to come.   
He fucks you harder and faster again, hitting your sweet spot, making it easier for you to fulfill his wish. And once you do, he stops in the motion, moaning as his cock is squeezed by your pulsating, clenching muscles.   
“That’s good, little one, good girl.” He rasps, fucking you slowly for a few thrusts, before concentrating on his own pleasure. 

By the time he’s ready with you, you lie on your belly, ass propped in the air and you haven’t the power to change it. You’re kind of knocked out. Happy’s lying at your side, his lips on your forehead, his hand petting your back. The anger is gone. The rage vanished. He’s relaxed and balanced.   
“Why were you so angry, Hap?” You ask lazily, eyes closed.   
“Club business. You don’t need to know.”  
“Mhm. Can we order pizza for dinner, please? I don’t think I’m able to prepare dinner.”  
“Okay.”   
“Thanks. Hap?”  
“Hm?”  
“I thought about the men in the club and the ... relationships they’re living in. They’re all the same, right?”  
“If you mean that the man is the head of household, that the man leads and gets to call the shots, than you’re right.”   
“It’s a bit of old-fashioned.”  
“Maybe. But that’s how it works best. For all of us. Don’t try to question me and my decisions on a regular basis, baby.”  
“But I’m allowed to question your decisions when I feel the need to?”  
“If you’re concerned about something, tell me. We can discuss it. Alone. In private. In a respectful tone. But in the end it’s my decision.”  
“Back in the 19th century.”  
“Yeah. Somehow. But the sex is better.” He grins and his finger glides to your asshole, drawing circles, massaging your entrance.   
“Happy ...,” you mumble, clenching your ass cheeks.   
“Sshh. Relax. Won’t fuck your pretty ass today. But I’ll start to get you used to the thought, to the touch.”  
You let out the air you’ve hold in your lungs, trying to relax. Happy caresses your ass for minutes, waiting for you to be relaxed. You could fall asleep – his gentleness is back, more intensive than ever. He pets over your butthole, adding a bit more pressure from time to time, until you cramp again.   
“No penetration, baby. I promise. Relax. Just relax. Does it feel good?”  
“Yeah,” you answer, sleepily and worn out.   
“Arousing?”  
“Mhm,” you hum, a bit ashamed.  
“That’s good. Close your eyes. Enjoy.”   
And that’s what you do. Without resistance, without hesitation. You trust him. And he knows what he’s doing.


	15. Gatecrasher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, again.

By the time the summer ends and the autumn starts you got used to many things you couldn’t imagine a year ago. Being in love, living with a new man. Giving this man access to your mind, your soul and body. You got used to be fucked rough and to be loved gently, you got used to be fucked in the ass, and he taught you to enjoy it, just as he taught you so many other things. You’re ... new born. And you’re the perfect woman for him, you complement him so well.   
The old fashion style of your relationship has never been a big problem for you. You’ve learned to trust him before he told you how this is going to work. And the one time you actually were concerned about something, you talked about it. Like grown-ups, on eye-level. And he changed his mind afterwards, he made a compromise you were both good with.   
There had been no more punishments, although Happy’s very strict. But you are a good girl and your inner peace makes it easy to accept the things you’re just not allowed to do. You’re settled. The only thing reminding of your kidnapping is the ankle bracelet. But you don’t think about it. It’s like it has ever been a part of you. 

In this October night he came home late, his kisses tasted like whiskey, his white shirt was bloody. And as he stripped you saw two new smiling faces on his belly. Right now he’s in the shower, and you wait for him, reading a book.   
You smile as he enters the room, naked, his cock already half erect. He lays down, rubbing over his face and his freshly shaved head. You finish reading the side and place the book on the bedside table, before sliding on his side.   
“Hey,” you whisper, kissing him.   
“Hey,” he answers.   
“How was work today, hon?” You ask and he shakes his head: “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”  
“Okay,” you smile, kissing his neck, a trail over his breast bone to his nipple. You coddle him like you know he likes it.   
He never talks about his work. His “jobs”. And you don’t wanna know. But you ask anyway, just to be polite. The thought of him being a killer is still scary, so you don’t think about it so much. You’re a master of repression in this particular point.   
He holds your hands while you blow him for a few minutes, lazy, slow, in no hurry to finish him off. With him you’ve learned to enjoy sex on a whole new level. You never feel used or abused, no matter how rough he is. Happy makes it good for you, every single time.   
“Ride me,” he groans and his cock leaves your mouth with a “pop”.   
He’s very restrained today, you think. Normally he isn’t this fond of you on top, to less control for him, and normally he doesn’t hold your hands when you blow him. Normally his hands are on the back of your head, leading you.   
You climb on his belly, bend over to kiss him, feeling his fingers on your labia, circling over your clit, the tip of one finger sliding into your pussy.   
“So wet for me already,” he whispers on your lips. “I barely touched you.”   
You sigh, concentrating on another kiss, sinking down on his cock in the moment his hand is gone. You smile down on him, riding him slowly, teasingly, his hands caressing your thighs. His piercing gaze is locked with yours, his lips slightly open.   
“I love you,” he says. “Don’t wanna lose you.”  
“You don’t lose me, Happy,” you answer. “I love you too.”   
Up, down, up, down, in a slow, pleasant rhythm, feeling a little shiver every time he hits your sweet spot. You wait for him to take control over the fuck, but he does nothing, he lets you have your way with him.   
“I can’t imagine living without you,” he states and you speed up a bit. “Fuck, woman!”  
“Happy,” you moan, “please ...”  
He gets the hint and places his thumb over your clit, pleasing you how you need it. He knows your body, your needs. Sometimes better than you do, just as he knows your mind and your soul so profoundly.   
Your thighs starting to burn, giving you the signal it’s time to let go. And that’s what you do. You cum around his cock, so hard you double over, crashing on his chest, in his arms. He holds your quivering body until you rode out the last waves.   
He doesn’t say a word, although he isn’t finished, he doesn’t move, he patiently waits for you to recover. No command, no pressing of buttons.   
“I love you,” you whisper, squeezing your inner muscles, making him hiss.   
“Ride me,” he answers hoarsely. “Please.”   
And you do, wondering what changed his attitude so much. It won’t be permanent, you’re sure. But it’s ... remarkable. Something happened and you don’t know what. And most likely you’ll never know. 

“Thank you,” he whispers at your ear, a few minutes after shooting his load in your pussy.   
“You’re welcome, Happy,” you answer, bedding his head on your chest.   
He holds you close, for what seemed to be an eternity and suddenly you notice he’d fall asleep. With his head still on your chest. Normally it’s the other way round – a whole bunch of new things tonight.   
Closing your eyes you drift in a dreamless sleep, to be woken up by rough hands caressing your body and a hard cock sliding through your folds.   
“Happy ...” you whisper and he places a kiss on your shoulder: “Yes or no?”  
“Yes, please,” you answer and he enters you from behind, his body still sleep warm.   
Gentle good morning sex hasn’t been his thing so far, he isn’t into spooning. But now he fucks you slowly, gently, congenial to the bright, silent early morning, to the curls of sunlight breaking through the jalousies.   
This time your orgasm is as gentle as he is, slow, long burning, fulfilling your whole body, making you lose your voice. Lasting what seemed to be an eternity.   
You fall asleep again with his cock still buried in your pussy. 

In the moment you wake up you need a few minutes to sense what changed, what happened. Happy isn’t at your side anymore, his bedside is empty. You smell coffee and sigh, satisfied and perfectly happy. You stretch, snuggling back in the pillows, closing your eyes again, enjoying the moment.  
In the second you finally get up you realize what changed: The ankle bracelet is gone.   
Frowning you head to the bathroom, doing your morning routine before joining Happy in the kitchen.   
“Hey,” you smile, kissing him on the cheek, and he points on the kitchen table: “Sit down. We’ll have to talk.”   
You nod, taking the coffee mug he hands you with a smile. He takes a seat on the table, staring into his coffee.   
“You removed the bracelet while I was asleep.” You whisper and he nods: “Yeah.”   
Closing your hand around his fingers you cock your head, watching him closely, waiting for an explanation.   
“There was a meeting in a storehouse near Oakland yesterday afternoon. I was there. The gate-crasher.” Happy leans back, lifting his shirt, pointing on the two new smiling faces: “Birdie. Bishop.”   
For a few minutes there’s only silence in your – in Happy’s – kitchen. You watch the room, the cupboards you’ve rearranged, the fridge you’ve filled up two days ago, the “Homemade Decadence” backing book you’ve placed the evening before on the counter because you’ve planned to bake a cake today.   
“Clay isn’t a problem anymore. He doesn’t care. Birdie and Bishop are dead. The abject rest of Birdie’s crew isn’t interested in you. If they even know about your existence. I keep my promises, baby. You can go. You’re free.”  
“If I want to be free.”  
He lifts his head, looking you in the eyes and nods: “If you want to be free.”  
“And if not?”  
“I’ll keep you. Nothing will change. Except for the ankle bracelet. If you stay by choice, we won’t need it anymore.”   
“Nothing will change?” You ask, holding his gaze.   
“Nearly nothing. You can talk to the neighbors. To anyone you want to talk to.”  
“And between us?”   
“Between us nothing would change.”  
You nod slowly, thinking about your answer.


	16. Last decisions to make

“Can I think about it?” You ask, rubbing over your neck, taking your hand away in the second you notice what you’re doing.  
And why you’re doing it. Because having a hand on the neck calms you down. Because he linked the hand on your neck with the feeling of security, with shelter, relaxation, closeness. He linked this gesture with everything you need to feel good. He’s good with mindgames, he’s a master in reading people, a master in a kind of dark psychology. You should fear him, really fear him. Running away, as fast and as long as you can.   
“Sure,” he answers, watching your inner struggle with the interest you already knew he would show. “I ... have to go.” He says, after drinking his coffee.   
You nod, getting up as he gets up. He stands in front of you, very close, looking you in the eyes. Then he breaks the eye contact, heading to the hallway. You hear him opening a drawer, but you don’t follow him. Happy comes back, stone-faced as ever, and places two keys on the table.   
“Here. If you want ... that’s the key for the front door. And the car key. Obviously.”  
You nod, but you don’t touch the keys, watching him, seeing his inner fight behind his hard facade. He suffers. Just as you had suffered as you thought he would kill you in the near future. Uncertainty. Fear. Despair. Letting him taste his own medicine.   
“Bye, baby,” he says lowly.  
“Bye, Happy,” you answer.   
The sound of heavy boots. The door clicks. And he’s gone. With a sigh you clean the breakfast table, make the beds, starting the washer. You take a look in the garden, and decide to go out. Just ... for a walk. To enjoy freedom. To experience how it feels. Being free. Going out whenever you want. Alone. Coming home again. You take the key from the kitchen table and walk out the door. 

“You’re still here,” Happy says in the late afternoon, coming home and finding you in the kitchen, preparing dinner.   
“Yeah. I am, obviously. How was work today, Hap?”  
“Work? Uhm, okay.” He looks puzzled for a moment and clears his throat. “Will you stay?” He asks, placing his hand on your neck, pulling you in his embrace.  
You take a deep breath, feeling the peace he causes, the oh-so-welcomed protection, closeness and intimacy. Things that are as welcomed as his kiss, his hand on your ass, a possessive, greedy gesture, his ways to show you he loves you.   
“I don’t know. I still think about it.”   
He nods, kissing you once more.   
“Where you ... out?” Happy asks, taking a seat at the empty table.   
“Yes. I went for a little walk in the morning. Would you please ...” You say, pointing to the cupboard with the plates and the drawer with the silverware.   
“Sure.”   
Happy sets the table and you open the fridge: “Beer or ice tea, Hap?”   
“Beer.”  
You take a look over your shoulder, lifting an eyebrow.   
“Beer, please. Thank you.”   
“That’s better.”   
He growls deep in his chest, but he doesn’t answer. 

After finishing dinner and eating a piece of the cake you baked he gets another bottle of beer, watching you clean the kitchen.   
“What are the terms and conditions?” He asks hoarsely, after you started the dishwasher and cleaned the table, the counter, the stove.   
“First of all, I want a job.” You say, taking a seat.   
“Okay.”   
“I want to meet friends and family.”   
“Sure. You’re free. As I said.”  
“I decide.” You say, giving him a smile.   
“Decide what?”  
“Everything I want.”  
“No.” Happy growls, shaking his head. “This is not how it works.”   
He comes nearer, places his hand on your neck again – which causes a little shudder running through your body, and makes your eyes closing – and pulls you nearer. His forehead is pressed on yours and he whispers: “You liked it, right? It’s the easier way. Don’t fight just for the sake of a fight. It’s a waste of time and power. I always win.”  
“Happy ...”  
“No. Listen. It was peaceful. It worked. There’s no reason to change it. Let me take care. I’ll make it good for you. Always. I promise.”   
“I think about it.”  
“Okay.” Happy nods, squeezing your neck, massaging the tense muscles.   
Fuck, he makes you feel so good. You know perfectly that you’ve been manipulated, probably brainwashed to feel like this – but it’s so good. It’s like a drug, you can’t get enough of. You’re addicted to the feelings Happy gives you.   
“No punishments,” you whisper and you see him smirk: “No punishments. Unless you beg for one.”   
“Ha-ha,” you answer and he places a kiss on your lips.   
“What else?” Happy asks and you shake your head: “That’s all.”   
“See? Stop fighting, baby, stop fighting and we’ll agree.”  
You sigh, lowering your head, giving him full access to your neck, letting him work his wonders. 

On the fourth day of uncertainty, Happy loses his patience. While he takes you from behind, his fist tangled in your hair. He pulls you up, pressing your back on his chest, bringing his lips on your ear: “If you don’t decide, I decide for you.”  
“That’s what you want, right?” You ask lowly, bucking your hips, “You can’t think of anything else. Not even when you fuck me.”  
“Right,” he rasps, “it maddens me.”   
“You suffer, don’t you?” You whisper, sighing as he kisses your shoulder.   
“Yeah.”  
“That’s not even close to my suffering when I thought you would kill me.”  
“I knew you were mine in the moment you begged me to loosen the ties, without saying a word, because you were not allowed to speak. You were mine, you are mine, and I don’t hurt what’s mine.”  
“Fuck me, please, Happy,” you whisper and he answers: “Will you stay?”  
“I think about it.”  
“No. No more thinking about it. Just say what you have to say.”  
“Today, in the morning, I wrote a letter.”  
“Yeah?” Happy asks, giving you a few, slow thrusts.   
“I cancelled my rental arrangement for my apartment.”   
“And? Are you moving to Oklahoma or fucking Alaska now?”  
“No. I’ll stay here.”  
“Thanks, baby,” he rasps.


	17. Epilogue

“You’re working too much.” Happy says, watching you preparing dinner. “You’re stressed.”  
“I know.” You answer sighing.  
He reads you like a book, he knows exactly what’s wrong. There’s no need to deny it.   
“I don’t like it.” He says, getting up, stepping behind you.   
You take a deep breath as you feel his hand on your neck, welcoming the peace, the relief. Three years down the road and it still works. Just as your old-fashioned relationship. Yeah, you’re good with your arrangement. You don’t argue and fight like other couples, like Jax and Tara, or Opie and Lyla. Here, in your home, you can live in peace. No fights, no struggling, no arguing. Just peace. And every few months a calm discussion when you’re not able to understand why he made a decision. Or when you think he made a choice concerning only the second best way. But most of the time you trust him and he never disappoints you. His methodical and matter-of-factly nature prevents him from wrong decisions, even when he’s upset. That’s why he’s so good in his “job”.   
“That’s better,” he whispers and you nod, stirring absent-mindedly in the pot.   
You lean against him and you’re not surprised about his following statement: “I want you to work less.”  
“Happy ...,” you say, but he shushes you.  
“Think about it. Speak with your boss. Offer him to work either two hours per day short, or only four days a week.”  
“But I ...” You start and he squeezes your neck gently: “You think about it first. Tomorrow we’ll discuss the subject.”   
“Happy ...,” you sigh and he closes your mouth with his hand: “Keep quiet or I’ll gag you.”   
You remove his hand from your mouth, turn around and kiss him.   
“Tomorrow it’ll be three years.” You whisper, breaking the kiss.   
“Three years?”  
“That you told me you would gag me if I’m not keeping my mouth shut.”   
Happy frowns and nods slowly: “Hell, yeah.”   
He kisses you once again, before taking two plates out of the cupboard and the silverware out of the drawer.   
“Mrs. Lowman?” He asks and you take a look over your shoulder.   
You’ve been married for half a year now, wearing his crow for nearly two years.   
“Mr. Lowman?”  
“I think about spending the weekend in the cabin. For old times’ sake.”   
“Do you want to tie me on the bed and scare me to death, Hap?” You ask grinning.  
“If I want to tie you on the bed and scare you, I don’t need a cabin. I can do this right here. But if you insist on being tied up, baby ...”   
You laugh, shaking your head: “I insist on having cheese sandwiches and lots of sex, that’s all.”  
“I can live with that.” He answers and makes his decision: “We’re gonna spend the weekend in the cabin.”  
“Okay. Shall I call Juice and ask him for a pair of boxers, a shirt and sweatpants?”  
Happy grins and shakes his head: “No. You won’t need any clothes at all.”  
“Sounds too good to be true.”   
“That’s exactly what I thought in the moment you made the final decision on your own.” Happy says, slapping your ass.   
“The decision to stay with you?”  
“Yeah. The best decision you’ve ever made.”  
“Really? What a pity it had been the last, don’t you think, Mr. Lowman?” You tease, smiling.   
“Being disrespectful, little one? Want me to bring the ankle monitor after dinner?” He says, stone-faced.   
“No. I’m a good girl, I swear.”   
“You are.” He states. “You really are.”   
“I love you, Happy.” You smile, “So damn much.”  
“Love you too. And I loved you first. I win.”   
“You always win,” you answer, leaning in for a kiss.


End file.
